The Songbird's Winter
by Kerrigas
Summary: In a black night of green flames, the Hound comes to set a caged bird free and she accepts. But the road to freedom is long and harsh, and winter is coming. Amidst a cold land of cruelty, betrayal, and war, can freedom truly exist, and love ultimately blossom? San/San May contain mature content and spoilers up to SoS.
1. Prologue

**Title: **The Songbird's Winter

**Warnings:** Mature content advisory - Language, violence, and sexuality

**Pairings: **Sansa Stark/Sandor Clegane

**Spoiler Warnings:** References up to A Clash of Kings, and possibly spoilers from A Storm of Swords if I decide to keep the fic in line with the original ASOFAI storyline. I'll post warnings beforehand, though.

**Note:** In this story, Sansa is currently 13 years of age - I can't remember her age when she first flowered (if you know for sure, please let me know), though she was 11 when first taken to Kings Landing. She may also seem a bit more mature, but then that's because I like to believe that after all the Lannister's did to her, she's learned something about trusting gallant men.

Thank you, and please let me know what you think!

-Kerrigas

...

Prologue

...

The ocean was aflame with green. Crushed ships sank slowly into the flames as yet others attempted to flee, the sails already crawling with greedy green tongues. Even from her window, Sansa Stark could hear the screams of dying men, burning alive or throwing themselves into the sea. Sansa spotted a single banner – a stag head surrounded by red flames – before the red was replaced by green. She wondered if the Lord of Light could have anticipated the power of Wildfire.

The scene was as mesmerizing as it was brutal. The black sky glowed with green cinders that reminded her of the glowing firebugs she would oft see by the river. Sansa forced herself to leave the window, glancing around her room for the few belongings she might need. Beyond packing, she had no idea what to do. Where was she to go? How was she to leave? Could she hide? As soon as Stannis' men broke through the wall, they would kill her. They would rape her, and kill her. Sansa clutched her arms and hurried to her wardrobe, pulling out the warmest, plainest clothes she owned. She longed to bring along the gorgeous silks and velvets that filled her closet, but even she knew that she would easily be caught if she wore those on her escape. After a moment's musings, however, she filled a small cloth sack with jewelry and precious stones. She had no gold, or even silvers or coppers, and surely the jewelry could be exchanged for viable coin.

She was about to roll up the furs from her bed when the door suddenly slammed open. Sansa whirled around, nearly tripping over a pair of overturned boots as she did, heart pounding. A huge, shadow of a man stood in the doorway. Water dripped from his scarred face and pooled onto the floor in black rivulets. Sansa hugged the cloth sack closer to her chest, backing up a few steps. How had the king's Hound found her? She had made certain she was not followed when she rushed to her room. He was supposed to be on the battlefield, not in her room.

"Ser…?" She said cautiously. The man glanced up at her from behind dark hair, eyes glittering like obsidian arrowheads. He approached her slowly, heavy footsteps creaking on the wooden floorboards. The door was still open behind him, and Sansa considered making a dash for it, but the Hound simply turned and sat at the foot of her bed. Sansa edged backwards nervously, fingering at the cloth bag.

"Ser… I-"

"Don't call me ser," Sandor Clegane rasped. Sansa flinched at the sharp rebuke. "I'm not a knight."

"Is… is the battle over?" She asked, after a momentary pause. "Have we won?" The Hound replied with a choked rasp, which she assumed to be a laugh. She could smell the alcohol on his breath from near across the room.

"What does it matter? Stannis, Joffrey, they're all just a bunch of dogs fighting over a piece of meat." Sansa said nothing. Sandor pulled out a skin of wine and took a long swig. Sansa suddenly noticed he was shaking.

"Why did you leave?" she asked quietly. The Hound looked up at her, and Sansa feared she may have insulted him. He rose to his feet, swaying slightly before edging forward and cornering her against the wall. Sansa's eyes darted toward the open doorway again. She tried to look at him, but the horrid red scar forced her to look away again. If the Hound had noticed, he said nothing.

"This isn't a war anymore," he said. "It's a massacre. Blood and steel, aye. That's a battle, that's a war. But sorcery, murderous shadows… fire." She saw him shudder, and green shadows danced on his scars. He was scared, and she realized that fear no longer clutched her own heart.

"You're hurt," she said. The dripping she had believed to be water was actually blood, almost black in the dark room. It dribbled from a wound on his forehead along his scar.

"I'm leaving," Sandor said.

"What do you mean? What about Joffrey?"

"I mean what I said. Fuck the kingsguard, and fuck the king. Don't tell me you care for him, after everything he's done to you." Sansa flinched, but she couldn't forget the still-healing bruises that littered her skin after her once-beloved had had her publicly beaten and humiliated. She looked down.

"What are you going to do, once you leave? They'll hunt you down. Will you join the wall?" Sandor spat.

"I could, but that would just make me some other man's dog. I'm done with being tied up and down. Come with me." Sansa first thought she had misheard, and then glanced up, startled.

"You can't be serious," she said.

"I can protect you. Take you to Winterfell."

"Winterfell is gone," Sansa said bitterly. "I can't go there anymore."

"I can take you to your mother." Sansa clutched the cloth bag closer. To see her mother again. And Robb. For all she knew, they were all she had left. Arya had disappeared since her father's execution, and Bran and Rickon…

"Why would you do this?" She whispered. The Hound fixed her with a fierce look.

"A little caged bird won't last long with a neglectful owner." It wasn't what she had meant, but she understood that the Hound would offer her no better answer.

"I… It will be dangerous," she stammered. "There are outlaws. And Stags."

"And Krakens and Lions, and each of them will kill you or ransom you to someone meaner. If it's not Joffrey, it will be someone else." Sansa nodded.

"I know," she said, voice trembling. "But I can't tell which is worse." The Hound lifted her chin with a calloused hand.

"Choose," he rasped. Sansa forced herself to look upon his face. The scar was fierce, his eyes fiercer. But even the huge, bloodstained hands of the Hound were more gentle then Joffrey's had ever been.

"I'll come," she said. The Hound nodded and ripped the soiled white cloak off his shoulders, wrapping it around her.

"Then ready yourself, little bird. This will not be an easy voyage."

...

**.:Author's Note:. **This is my first ASOFAI fanfic, and I am very excited! I've been obsessed with this series since I started reading it about a month ago. I can't wait to see what George R.R. Martin does with this series. However, I found myself particularly entranced by the relationship between Sansa Stark and Sandor Clegane, and was quite disappointed by the HBO series' complete and utter disregarding of the special moments between the two. I wish there had been more between Sansa and Sandor, even in the books, and so I imagined what it would have been like if Sansa had eloped with Sandor when he'd asked. Ironically, I quite hated Sansa until recently.

Please bear with my poor narration and primitive canon memory,

- Kerrigas


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

…

The wind was cold and brisk, and Sansa's thighs were sore and hurting. They had ridden fast and hard with green skies and an empty castle to their backs. Sansa rode before Sandor on the Hound's destrier, Stranger, a dark horse almost as huge and vicious as its owner. The Hound's armor chaffed her back, despite a thick earthen cloak wrapped around her shoulders. She had changed into a simple green dress with double layers of undergarments, and cotton breeches beneath, elk-skin boots on her feet and a pair of gloves she'd hand-knitted herself. She had wanted to wear a beautiful, soft brown woolen cloak with it's fox-fur lined hood, a gift from her mother before she'd left Winterfell, but the Hound insisted it was too gaudy and threw it into the hearth.

The sparse remainder of her clothes, furs, and the sack of jewels were stuffed in a cloth bag and tied to the saddle. The Hound himself had fewer possessions, besides a bag of dragons and stags and a few rolled up furs to keep the cold at bay. He had thrown the cloak in the hearth, but kept all the armor save his helmet, for which Sansa was grateful. The vicious, Hound-head shaped helm had always frightened her.

They followed Blackwater Rush with bearings toward the God's eye. Sandor wished to avoid the Kingsroad, and for good reason. They rode all night until the light hours of dusk. Sandor had pushed Stranger at a swift canter for the first hour of their escape, but once far enough from the city and the Kingsroad, he alternated between a walk and trot. By daybreak, the horse's flanks were white with sweat and the adrenaline from the night before had worn off, leaving Sansa exhausted and ridden with saddle sores. They finally stopped in the midst of a sparse forest, the river to their left. Sandor plucked Sansa off the saddle as if she weighed no more than a doll.

As soon as her feet touched the ground, Sansa desired nothing more than to sink into the bed of crushed leaves and fall asleep, but the rest of her body averred otherwise and instead she gently picked her way through the brush behind a thick tree to make water. Stranger was already perched over the edge, swallowing deep mouthfuls of river-water when she joined him. Sansa fell to her knees and gathered water in her palms, cleaning the dust from her face. She wanted nothing more than to shed her clothes and bath, wash away all the sweat and dust and soreness, but it was far too cold, and the Hound insisted they keep a steady pace for at least a few days.

As she dried her neck with the hem of her cloak, the Hound passed her a skin.

"Drink, little bird. We won't be making many more stops 'till Brooks End." Sansa gratefully accepted the skin, drinking heavily as she realized her thirst. "Slowly," the Hound growled. "You'll make yourself sick."

"What's in Brooks End?" Sansa asked once she'd finished. The hound capped the skin and tucked it beneath his cloak. He handed her a slice of salt beef and hard cheese, which she quickly devoured.

"People, and maybe an inn. We'll likely not be able to sell the jewels until we reach Stoney Sept."

"That's along the river, isn't it? Couldn't we take a boat?" The Hound snorted and pulled Stranger from the riverbank, tightening his girth once more. The horse kicked irritably, but calmed at a stroke of the Hound's hand on its rump.

"Look at the current, foolish girl. It runs to the sea, not the mountains. We ride." Sansa nodded, washing her hands in the river and allowed Sandor Clegane to lift her back up into the saddle before mounting up behind her.

…

They rode surely and steadily for the remainder of the day. Sansa found herself dozing in the saddle, lulled by the rhythmic swaying of the saddle and the warmth of the body behind her, even though cold metal armor. So it was naught until she was roughly shaken awake that she realized they had stopped.

"Wake up, little bird," the Hound said, looking up at her. We're at the Inn." Sansa nodded, yawning. The Hound helped her from the saddle, and she stumbled a bit before regaining her feet. Looking up, Sansa realized the sky was turning pink, and the sun had settled low among the trees. She meekly accepted her belongings from the Hound and followed him towards a two-story inn, a cracked wooden sign with a crowned duck hanging lopsidedly from one chain off a wooden post.

"What is this place?" She asked, sidling up closer to the Hound, who was leading Stranger to his left.

"An inn. Hot food, a warm bath, and a straw bed for the night if we're lucky." Sansa cringed at the thought of the itchy straw, but the warm bath sounded god-sent at that moment. A dirty young boy with olive skin and dark hair emerged from the side of the inn. He looked at them suspiciously until Sandor threw him a copper.

"I expect my horse washed, brushed, and fed," he ordered. The boy nodded and made to take Stranger's reigns but the destrier snapped at his fingers, ears pressed back. Sandor laughed as the boy snatched back his hand.

"You'll have to let me lead him to the stables. He's harmless otherwise." The boy nodded and shot the horse a wary glance before disappearing back into the stables.

"Why did you do that?" Sansa asked, frowning.

"Do what?" The Hound growled.

"You knew what Stranger was going to do when he got close," she said. "Why didn't you warn him first?" Sandor shrugged.

"He should learn to have a healthy fear of all beasts. Horses aren't stupid creatures."

"He could have lost a finger," Sansa insisted. The Hound spared her a glance.

"Or many more, and I wouldn't be to blame." Sansa said nothing, and followed Sandor into the inn. The Royal Duckling, as she learned it was called, was small if anything, with tables and chairs crammed together like bricks. Dirt and leaf litter covered the floor, and the air smelled of mold and damp wood. The inn was sparsely occupied. Three large, frightening men sat at a table nursing cups of wine and talked softly, sparing the newcomers a few glances before returning to their conversation. A single man, fat and red-faced, was slumped over the table, snoring beside an empty cup. The innkeeper was a short, lanky, long-faced man with small, suspicious eyes that darted over the two of them.

"What can I help you gentle-folk with today?" he said, rubbing his hands on a greasy apron.

"Hot food, a warm bath for the lady, and a room for two," he said. The man narrowed his eyes.

"Do you have silver?" he asked. "Hot water will cost you more."

"A dragon for the hot bath and ample wine," Sandor grunted, placing a gold coin on the counter. The innkeep snatched up the coin and bit into it. Satisfied, he pocketed the coin and smile, revealing a row of crooked yellow teeth.

"Make yourselves at home, good folks. My wife will prepare a hot bath once you have had your dinner, and a room will be prepared. Will you prefer two rooms or one?"

"One room, two beds," Sandor replied stoutly. The man nodded and rushed toward a wooden stairwell, yelling in a high, shrieking voice for a certain Sheila. Minutes later, a plump woman with red cheeks, a flat nose, and dark brown hair plodded down the stairs.

"Shut your racketing, Ilyn," she barked. "What is it?"

"We'll be needing a hot bath for the lady, and they'll take the third room," Ilyn replied. She glanced at the travelers and nodded, heading out the backdoor and returning a few minutes later with a bundle of chopped wood under an arm, which she heaved upstairs.

Sansa and Sandor took the seat nearest the back doorway. Sandor sat with his back to the wall, downing his wine as Sansa sipped at a cup of sweet cider. Sansa couldn't help but glance at the three men at the far table, who had been keeping an obvious eye on them since the Hound had flashed his dragon, but Sandor didn't seem to notice them, or if he did, he made no remark upon their interest, only rested his palm on the hilt of his sword. It wasn't long before a plate of well-cooked horsemeat with salt, onions, and turnips was placed before them.

Sansa hadn't realized how hungry she was until she smelled the plate. She immediately began cutting delicately at the meat, changing hands to manipulate her fork and knife. The horseflesh was hard and stringy – Sansa rarely had the misfortune of dining on it – but it filled her belly and sated her appetite. The Hound tore at his meat with his teeth and fork, the knife left forgotten on the table. Half-way through her meal, he took the knife from her.

"Stop eating like a highborn lady, and maybe people won't figure it out," he growled when she complained. Sansa was forced to eat the rest with her fingers after she realized that tearing at it with her fork wasn't working so well. By the end of the meal, she felt dirty and greasy, but wouldn't clean herself on her cloak. She tried wiping the grease from her mouth with the back of her hand, but the Hound only laughed at her.

"You look better with the grease," he said, "less like a lady, more like me." Sansa scowled, and gladly left his company when the inkeep's wife came to fetch her.

"Who's the knight?" Sheila asked as she ushered Sansa upstairs and into a large room. A fire was burning on the left side of the room, with a small cauldron of boiling water suspended over it. A large, wooden tub sat in the center of the room, hot steam swelling out of it.

"He's not a knight," Sansa replied.

"Not a knight? He sure dresses like one. Or is he an outlaw – one of those Brave Companions?" Sansa frowned.

"He's not an outlaw. I don't know the Brave Companions." The Brave Companions sounded like a gallant band. Maybe they were outlaws who stole from the rich to feed the poor, like Gillian the Rider, who had ridden across Westeros hundreds of years back, distributing gold from the pockets of the wealthy to the hands of the lesser folk. Or so Septa Mordane had told her, many years ago, but Sansa had come to mistrust the tales of gallant knights and good men. They seemed to be harder and harder to come by.

"Well, what is he then? Your husband?"

"He's my father," Sansa said. Sheila tutted, stripping Sansa's gown off and helping her removed her underclothes.

"He looks young. How long have you two been traveling together?" Sansa disliked Sheila's poring questions, but she did not want to be rude.

"Not long. We met up a King's Landing. My mother is gone, and my sister disappeared." Sansa wondered if her tale was too close to the truth, however vague, but the woman only nodded sympathetically, dumping the last of the hot water from the cauldron into the tub.

"What a pity. He's quite handsome, your father. Despite the scars. Do you know what happened to him?"

"He was burned," Sansa replied curtly. The inkeeper's wife finally seemed to understand and asked no more, helping Sansa into the tub. Sansa moaned in pleasure. The water was just the right temperature, and the heat seeped through her delicate skin, soothing the bruises, blisters and sores. Sheila grabbed a bar of soap and began scrubbing Sansa's skin.

"Ouch, you're hurting me," Sansa complained as the woman began scrubbing at her back.

"You're a sensitive little lady, aren't you," the woman said. "You've a lot of bruises and sores for someone whose been traveling around for a while." Sansa did not like the suspicious tone of the woman's voice one bit.

"I'm not used to riding," she lied, "and father rides hard and fast."

"Where are you headed?"

"West," Sansa said. She ignored all other questions the woman asked her until she had been thoroughly scrubbed and cleaned and her skin was red as a baby's cheeks and stepped out of the bath, shivering. She was scrubbed up and down again with a scratchy towel, and once she had redressed, she was ushered to her room. There were two beds on either side of the room made up of a cot stuffed with soft hay on a raised wooden bed. The only light came from an oil lamp at the foot of Sandor's bed. The Hound was lying on the one closest to the doorway, but it was far too short for him and his boots dangled from the edge of the bed. His eyes were closed, but they opened as she entered the room. He had removed his armor, but kept the rest, including the sheathed sword sitting by his head.

"Have you bathed to your pleasure, little bird?" he asked as she entered. Sansa blushed and made for her own bed, sliding beneath the covers. The sheets were soft enough that the thick, scratchy woolen cover did not bother her has much as it could have, and the pillow was stuffed with feathers, not hay.

"Where are we going?" she asked in the darkness. She had wanted to ask, but never had, and despite their travels, they had never discussed the ultimate destination.

"Riverrun. Your mother should be there, else, her father. They'll know what to do with you, little bird."

"What will you do when we reach Riverrun?" she said. The Hound said nothing, and she heard him rustle in his bed.

Sansa closed her eyes, immediately finding a dark, dreamless sleep.

…

Sansa was shaken awake early the next morning. The Hound stood over her, his scar red and slick in the early light. The sight was enough to jerk her awake.

"Get up, girl. We leave now." Sansa sat up, rubbing her eyes.

"It's so early," she complained.

"And we best leave soon, unless you want to find yourself with a sword in your gut and your precious sack of stones gone." Sansa paled and slipped out of the bed, quickly bucking the cloak around her neck, sliding on her boots, and padded out behind the Hound. He handed her a round of cold bread and an orange for breakfast. The inn was quiet, and only the stable boy was awake to see them off. He kept a healthy distance as Sandor took his horse, which had been brushed and saddled.

They mounted and were off as the sun rose above the horizon. They followed the river for several more miles until it forked off along the Goldroad.

"Pull up your hood, little bird," the Hound rasped from behind. "If you're seen here, its straight back into Joffrey's loving arms for you." Sansa dutifully bunched her hair behind her neck and raised her hood to shade her face. The sun had risen high in the sky, but a cool wind kept her from sweating too hard. The Hound, however, smelled strong and musky, not entirely unpleasant, but she resolved to encourage he take a bath at the next inn they met.

As they wandered along the Goldroad, they met only a small group of travelers, ragged and old and poor, with only an old mule dragging along a single cart piled high with their sparse belongings. They gave Sandor and Sansa a suspicious look, but exchanged not a word, and were quickly lost behind them.

"Who were they?" Sansa asked.

"Common folk," Sandor grunted.

"What were they doing? Where are they going?" The Hound's gaze dropped to look at her.

"Fleeing," he said simply. She furrowed her brows.

"Fleeing? From where?"

"They could be running from anywhere. Likely their homes were burnt down, their sons killed and daughters raped."

"Did outlaws do that?" she asked. The Hound shrugged.

"Outlaws. Or Lions, or Wolves." Sansa stiffened.

"Robb would never abide the rape and murder of innocents," she countered defiantly.

"Your brother cannot control every man under his banner. Many and most men are cruel and greedy, and war only makes them harder. Even the young wolf would kill and rape if he didn't have to worry about his title and his damned honor."

"That honor is what makes him different from the common men," Sansa replied.

"Aye," the Hound replied, "but underneath, he's no different from them." Sansa jerked her head to the side to glare up at him.

"How would you know, Ser Clegane? You've served Joffrey, not Robb." Sandor's hands twitched at the surname, but he only countered Sansa's glare with a cruel smile.

"All men are the same. They all love the thrill of a woman fighting beneath them, the blood of other men slipping through their fingers. I'm sure your precious brother would love to see your pretty little face wet with tears and squirming under him." Sansa trembled with rage, and considered throwing herself off the horse, but it wouldn't take long for the Hound to catch her on his destrier.

"Just because you are sick and twisted does not make my brother the same," she hissed angrily. The Hound laughed and transferred the reigns to one hand, reaching up with the other to push her hood back. She slapped his hand away.

"Don't touch me," she snapped in a strained voice. She half expected Sandor to hit her then, but he only snorted.

"Quiet your shrill chirping, little bird," he said. "You're not near enough a woman for me." Sansa clutched the saddle with white hands and bit her lip to keep the tears stinging her eyes from falling. For the first time since the night of green flames, she regretted leaving King's Landing.

…

**.:Author's Note:. **Many thanks to all the reviewers thus far. I've been working diligently on this story thus far, but I began fleshing it out more, and realized it may end up longer than I originally planed. I'm trying to stay relatively true to the character's personalities, and thus I can warn you that this won't be an immediate romance. The Hound is coarse and hard-minded, and cruel in his own way. He isn't a romantic character, and developing his relationship with Sansa is going to take a while. Please bear with me, and let me know if I stray too far down the OOC road. I'm not used to narrating from the POV of a more girlish girl like Sansa. I'm possibly going to stick with Martin's manipulation of her as an unreliable narrator - we'll see.

Thank's again, and I'll try to update soon!

- Kerrigas


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

…

As the sun began to close over the west, they reached a small river port. A wooden boat was docked on land and tied to the pillar of a small cottage. Sansa stiffly allowed Sandor to help her dismount, avoiding his eyes, and stepping away as soon as her feet touched the ground. The Hound pretended not to notice and instead knocked on the cottage door.

"What is it?" a growly voice answered from within. "Who are yeh?"

"A father and daughter seeking passage across the river," Sandor answered gruffly. Sansa assumed he was trying to sound civil and unthreatening, but there was little that was unthreatening about the Hound's physical appearance between the scar, thick, scraggly dark hair, thick plated armor, and the sword swinging at his hip. The ferry man, however, appeared unperturbed as he opened the door. He was a large man, with thick arms and hands, a broad face, and gray-brown hair.

"I don't ferry across the river since this damned war started. Too dangerous – the Lions already think I'm a stag sympathizer."

"Are you?" the hound asked. The man spat.

"Damn them all and their kings. I served King Robert and now I serve no one, not that ill-begotten boy-king, or the red stag, or the young wolf. I don't ferry. If you want to cross, there's a ferry farther up in Goldvale."

The Hound pulled out a gold coin and held it up to the light.

"We need to cross, and we would prefer to avoid the crowd," he said. The ferryman glanced at Sansa and then at the coin and took it, biting into it.

"I'll need another to cross back," he said, eyes darting at the coin bag attached to Sandor's belt. "The river's been flowing fast of late, could ruin the rudder. Must be raining hard up north." The Hound narrowed his eyes but pulled out another dragon and flicked it at the man.

"Wait here," the ferryman said, disappearing back into the cottage. Sansa stood sullenly behind Sandor, staring at the doorway. Minutes later, the man reappeared, a long oar in one hand and a copper key in the other. They approached the boat, which appeared to have been chained and locked to the wooden pillar. He unlocked the boat and, with Sandor's aid, pushed the boat to the bank of the river.

The river was wide and deep, and though the current was slow, she could see how it pulled strongly on thick reeds and slick river plants. The water was clear, and Sansa caught the glimmer of scales at the bottom before disappearing behind a large rock.

"Little bird, best get in or I'm leaving you behind," she heard the Hound growl. _And Mayhaps I wouldn't mind so much, _Sansa thought, but obediently stepped into the wooden boat. It was small, with three planks for benches, and creaked and swayed as Sandor stepped in. Sansa feared for a moment that it would break and she would be swept off by the current. She shuddered, and noticed that their belongings had been stacked under the prow of the boat, including Stranger's saddle. She turned around and saw the horse, bare save for his bridle, kicking impatiently at the ground. Sandor seemed to notice her confusion.

"He's swimming," he said. Sansa stared at him, but said nothing. If the horse ran off instead, she wouldn't be surprised, though it would leave them on foot until the nearest city, a pretext she considered with distaste. However, as they pushed off from the earthy bank, the horse snorted and dutifully plunged into the river, kicking its way across. As they reached the center of the river, the boat began to drift with the pull of the current, but they managed to pass without veering off course, and soon enough the ferryman had them docked on the opposite side. Sansa looked back to see the horse had fared rather well against the current, and as they finished unloading their belongings from the ferry, the horse trotted over to them, having shored a bit further down. Stranger gave a great shake, sending water droplets in their direction, before whickering and approaching Sandor. The Hound patted the great destrier's neck with a kind of pride and fondness Sansa found rather uncharacteristic. The ferryman shook his head.

"That's a hell of a loyal horse you got there," he said, clambering back into his boat. The Hound eyed Sansa in a way she did not like in the least.

"Loyal horses and little birds always come when called." Sandor nodded at the ferryman as he pushed off.

"So do dogs," Sansa replied dryly, once the ferryman was far enough away, "but that didn't stop you leaving when Joffrey called." The Hound shook his head.

"Even a dog knows when to slink away from a fight it cannot win." Sansa bit her tongue and looked away as Sandor saddled up his horse and tied their belongings to the saddle. It was already growing dark, and Sansa knew there was no way they were going to sleep in an inn that night.

They rode for a little while, until the horizon was a gradient of pink and purple, before settling beneath a small grove of trees. Goldroad was far to the east, and the land since the river had been little but grassland and sparse trees. It was as good as anywhere to make camp.

They ate a quick, cold meal of hard bread and cheese, salt meat, and a few dried prunes. Sansa found herself longing for the haunches of deer marinated in plum sauce, the rich, creamy seafood stews and endless plates of meats and pepper-roasted vegetables she ate every day at King's Landing, and as she settled down to sleep on the hard, musty ground, she dreamed of soft featherbeds and silken sheets. She shivered herself to sleep that night, under the eye of a red comet that streaked through the cloudless sky.

…

The next morning, the Hound roused her with a rough shake and a handful of dried fruits. Her throat was parched, and she wordlessly accepted the water skin. They made good time, alternating between a canter and a walk, but Sansa was finding herself cramping more and more. After two days of riding and sleeping on the hard ground surrounded by cold, she had a hard time walking without appearing stiff as a board. It didn't help that the lack of stirrups had her clamping her legs around the horse shoulders.

"When could I have my own horse?" Sansa asked as they took a quick rest by a small creek for Stranger to drink.

"When we find one," the Hound growled, tossing her the water skin. Sansa sent him a glare. He'd been entirely too moody for her liking since he'd drained his skin of wine. They didn't find a horse, but by late that afternoon they found an inn. It was along a small dirt road, and was much more crowded and rowdy than the last.

"Best keep you hood up and keep close, little bird," Sandor said after leading Stranger to the stables, "there will be prying eyes in there." Sansa wanted to point out that, between the two of them, he was far more likely to be recognized, but kept her mouth closed. She had tried to avoid conversation with the Hound since their argument, if it could be called such. Every night, her decision to leave King's Landing was becoming more and more regrettable.

The inn was rather crowded, and the scent of cooked meat and garlic had her mouth watering immediately. Sandor led her to a table against the wall, which he planked his back against, letting his dark eyes wander over the retinue of the inn. A well-rounded barmaid came to them, all red cheeks and smiling eyes.

"What can I get for you?" she asked, her gaze on Sandor.

"A room if you have one, hot food, Wine. And a cup of spiced cider for the girl." the Hound replied gruffly, his eyes still straying suspiciously over the crowd. One of two had looked up at their entry, but they had all returned to their meals, dice games, and bawdy jokes.

"We're quite crowded, but I'm sure we'll fit you somewhere," the woman answered, smiling sweetly at the Hound. He reached into his bag and slapped down several silvers.

"Best you do," he grunted. She gave him a wink, scooping up the coins and twirling away. The happy twangs of a lute filled the air, and Sansa looked up to see a young man in a green cloak starting up a song.

_There once was a merry maid_

_With dawn's light in her hair_

_Her eyes were a fiery shade_

_Her lips a red so rare_

_She sang me a pretty song_

_And whispered to me a wish_

_To leave her home in Riverrun_

_And ne'er see another fish_

It went on for several verses, each more ridiculous than the last. Sansa did not recognize the song, but the bard's voice was sweet and merry, and his face rather comely – clean shaven and cupped by dark curls. She joined the applause as he finished with a gaudy swoop of his cloak and a bow. She stopped when she noticed the Hound eying her, and diverted her attention to a cup of cider that was placed before her.

"Sorry for the wait, there's a terrible crowd today." As the barmaid placed Sandor's cup of wine before him, Sansa couldn't help but notice the obvious extent that she'd bent over, enough to gaudily flash the ample breast protruding from a tight bodice. The hound seemed not to have noticed, and simply grunted, draining his cup of wine in a matter of seconds.

"Just make sure to keep the wine flowing," he said. She smiled, though Sansa could see the disappointment in her eyes. Before leaving, the barmaid shot Sansa an irritated look. Sansa watched her go_. It's not my fault he doesn't want you, _she thought, sipping at the hot cider. It warmed her up considerably, though she was already sweating in the

The meal consisted of a thick haunch of mutton cooked with onions, turnips, carrots, salt, and spices. It was the best food she'd had since King's Landing, and her stomach was grateful for it. The salt beef and hard food had left her with sore teeth and a sorer stomach. Sandor had devoured his food, and since then drowned himself in wine. By the time they had finished, most of the occupants of the inn had left or found their rooms for the night, and the Hound's eyes were heavy with wine. Sansa fidgeted in her seat, before standing up.

"I'm going up to the room," she announced. Sandor looked at her and bared his teeth.

"That you're not," he said, words thick and slurred, "you're staying here. Stay close I said." Sansa curled her lip in disgust and stepped around the seat.

"I can find my own way, Ser. Thank you," she said sweetly, grabbing her sack of belongings from under the table and heading toward the bar. She heard the Hound yell after her, but paid him no mind. Instead, she found the barmaid who had served them, washing a plate with a musty rag.

"Excuse me," she said, "could you show me to our room?" she asked. The barmaid looked up at her, and it seemed to take her a while before placing her. She put down the plate and seemed to remember, though she looked no more excited about it than the rag stuffed in her skirt apron.

"Up the stairs, the second-to-last door to your right," she said, handing Sansa a key from behind the counter. Sansa thanked her and headed upstairs. Walking down the hall, she could heard the snoring of men behind closed doors, but didn't stop until she found the second to last door on the right. She opened it to find a small room with a single bed in the middle and naught but a three-legged table to liven up the room. The bed wasn't particularly small, but Sansa wondered if there would be room for her once her huge travelling companion shoved himself in, drunk and snoring. He only snored when he drank, she had noticed, and he had drunk a lot this evening. She momentarily considered sleeping on the floor, but the restless nights spent on the hard ground swayed her otherwise, no matter other discomforts. After removed her cloak, she sat on the bed – straw, of course – and plucked at the front of her tunic, leaning down to smell herself. It had been several days too many without a bath. Sansa took the key and locked the door behind her as she left the room, hoping to find someone who could offer her a bath. As she headed down the hall, however, she heard voices and the deep clambering of steps. She half expected the Hound to come lurching up the stairs, but it was only two men from the inn. She stepped to the side to let them pass, keeping her face down, and was surprised when the stopped in front of her instead.

"What a pretty little thing," one of them said. She looked up, startled back by the ugly face of one of the men looking closely at her. He had a large nose and small eyes ill-suited for each other, and everything below was covered in hair. "How much will it take to get you out of that pretty little dress o' yours?" Sansa shrank against the wall.

"Come now, Rago," a softer voice called, "that's no way to court a lady." Sansa looked up and was surprised to see the handsome young bard grinning at her beside the grisly man. The man called Rago grunted and burst into a heavy laugh.

"I suppose it isn't," he declared, "might be my manners scared her off."

"Don't flatter yourself," the bard quipped, "it was obviously that hideous face of yours." At that Rago wrinkled his nose.

"Bah, she won't see my face if I fuck her from behind."

"Forgive me, but I must be on my way," Sansa said, avoiding their eyes and making for the stairs. She didn't get two steps far when a hand latched on to her wrist and slammed her against the wall. She expected Rago to face her then, but it was the bard who held her wrist down. He leered at her, his pretty smile turned crooked. In a heartbeat, she was reminded of Joffrey.

"It's not safe for a pretty young lady such as yourself to travel alone," he said. "Mayhap you should stay with us tonight." Sansa twisted against the grip, but the young man was much stronger than he appeared.

"I'm not alone," she replied quickly, "I'm with my father, and he'll be coming up soon, and when he does you'll be wanting for heads." Rago laughed.

"You mean the scarred drunk downstairs? Last I saw him, he was sleeping in his own cup of wine. Nah, he won't be bothering us." Rago ran a hand up her stomach, stopping to squeeze her breast. Sansa shoved his hand away, only to have it snatched up.

"You're coming with us, little lady." Sansa struggled, but her other arm was twisted behind her back by the bard, who pushed her forward. She tried screaming, but he immediately placed his other hand over her mouth.

"Hush now," the young man whispered in her ear, "you wouldn't want to wake the other customers, would you?" Sansa figured wouldn't mind at all, and found herself leaning forward and bit down on the soft flesh of the bard's palm. He yelped and pulled back his hand.

"The bitch bit me," he hissed when Rago looked back questioningly. The man grinned.

"Might be we ought to teach her a lesson then," he said, raising a hand. Sansa flinched.

"Let her go."

Sansa started, and the three of them looked back. Standing not far behind them was the Hound, tall and menacing as ever, though Sansa noticed he was swaying slightly from the alcohol.

"And what if we don't want to?" Rago said, letting go of Sansa's arm in favor of properly facing his challenger.

"I'll cut off that fat nose of yours and shove it down your mouth," Sandor threatened. Rago laughed.

"You can't even stand strait, you stupid shit."

"I'm still more than enough for two half-shits," Sandor growled back. Rago snarled and ran at him, fists raised. Sandor caught a flying fist with one hand, and punched Rago hard in the face with the other. The large man slammed into the ground, howling. Sansa felt the bard stiffen behind her, and before she could blink, there was a cold knife pressed to her throat.

"Best you stay right there," the bard said.

"Go ahead," the Hound urged, "I'll stick that lute o' yours so far up your arse your bowels'll play for you." The knife shuddered at her neck, and Sansa winced as she felt it draw blood.

"I'll do it," her captor threatened, though his voice wavered uncertainly.

"And so will I." Sandor took a step forward, and the bard immediately flew down the hall, Rago stumbling after him and clutching his nose. Sansa rubbed at her throat, trembling, when suddenly she was shoved against the wall again.

"I warned you, little bird," Sandor snarled, his face far too close and stinking of wine, "I told you, stay close. See what happens to little birds that don't obey?" Sansa was too terrified to reply. The scar was wet and red and angry in the darkness, the Hound's eyes more so. He shoved her down the hall until they reached the room. There she fumbled for the key she had put into the pocket of her dress and opened the door.

"You should have stayed in the room, or better yet, stayed with me," he growled, locking the door and throwing off his armor, sword, boots, and mail. Sansa suddenly felt the anger boil within her.

"Why would I stay with you?" she demanded. "All you do is drink and say cruel things."

"I protect you, and I'm taking you to your wench of a mother, you ungrateful bird," the Hound snarled back. "You wouldn't last half a day out there. Now get into bed before I tie you to it." Sansa seethed, but obediently slipped under the sheets, inching as close to the edge as she dared with her back to the Hound. She felt him slide in next to her, throwing the covers over them.

She waited for him to fall asleep, her own eyes wide and red and angry. She would show him. She would make it to Riverrun. But she would make it alone.

…

**.:Author's Note:.** Comments, questions, criticisms? Leave a review!

Let me know how I'm doing so far. I rarely write high fantasy, so keeping the language, slang, and terminology proper is proving a challenge. At least I'm familiarizing myself with the map of Westeros.

I know Sansa is a rather meek character, but I'm making her a bit more rebellious. She's still rather naive and childlike, but fear drives her as well.

- Kerrigas


	4. Chapter 3

**.:Author's Note:. **I'm sorry to those who got the notification for this chapter, but the chapter did not appear. I had uploaded it, but apparently there was an issue with the site and it couldn't be read. I hope the problem is solved now.  
-Kerrigas

...

Chapter Three

…

Sansa waited a long while after the Hound had begun snoring before stirring. She slipped out from beneath the covers, padding softly on the floorboards, which were apt to creak at any moment. Sansa grabbed her belongings and stuffed the small bag of jewels into it. She threw on her cloak, picked up her boots, and was making for the door when a glitter gave her pause. She put the boots down and padded close to Sandor. The floorboards screeched under a misplaced foot, but Sandor's snoring drowned out the sound. Sansa bent over and picked up a large dagger from beside the Hound's roll of belongings. Unsheathed, it was as long as her forearm, and heavy, the blade curved and wicked and gleaming. She placed it back in the leather sheath and stole back to the doorway with the dagger tucked beneath her arm.

Sansa only slipped into her boots after leaving and locking the room. She considered taking the key downstairs, but slipped it under the door instead. Sansa padded down the hallway, quiet as a mouse, until she was able to slip outside. The night was dark and black, erupting with the sounds of cicadas, bats, and owls. _Only the stars and moon will light my way tonight,_ Sansa thought. She briefly considered returning to the inn and the warmth of the bed, but she quickly shook that thought away. _I made my decision, and I won't go back on it._

Sansa crept toward the stables. A fat stable boy lay snoring in an empty pen, an empty tankard of wine beside him, while the others accompanied two or three horses each. Stranger was in his own pen, and she dared not take him, though he whinnied softly as she passed, eyeing her darkly. She half expected him to start up a ruckus and wake his master, but the horse simply rustled his tail and turned his head away. She wandered down the stables and finally found a young mare with long, swift legs and a plain brown coat that wouldn't attract too much attention.

Sansa stole a thick round blanket that clipped in at the horse's chest from beneath the saddle and took down the bridle from a hook on the wall beside the saddle. She left a pearl necklace in a small pouch on the bridle hook, which she assumed to be reasonable as recompense for the horse and tack. She picked up the saddle, and after several tries and grunts of distress, managed to prop the saddle on the horse. She'd never saddled a horse herself, but thankfully the saddle girth was simple and only required to be buckled to the other side.

The mare was soft and docile, much to Sansa's gratitude. Once bridled and blanketed with her belongings well tied to the saddle, Sansa led the mare out, propped her foot in the stirrup, and mounted. No sooner had she settled on the horse than she flicked her reigns and spurred the mare forward to gallop into the night. She needed to put as much distance between herself and the Hound tonight as possible. Otherwise, his destrier would catch up to her within a day.

…

Sansa forced her mare hard through the darkness. The moon was almost round and the stars bright, so the horse managed to keep its footing, and Sansa dared not lessen her pace until dawn began to rise. She allowed her horse to drink from a small stream as she fumbled at the stirrups, trying to figure out how to adjust them. She finally knotted the leather stirrup thongs a few notches, and retied the bundle to the back of her saddle as it had begun to slide off during the ride.

Sansa's stomach growled, and she realized that she hadn't taken neither food nor drink with her in her hurried escape. She rued her poor planning, but resolved to buy food at the next inn she found.

The next inn ended up being much farther than she thought. She rode for a large portion of the day, urging her mount to a gallop every time she heard a rustle behind her, convinced the Hound was on her heels. Septa Mordane had taught her in navigation, so she could generally assume where North was, but Sansa had very little knowledge of the land. The last map she'd looked had been in a history book when she was Arya's age. Sansa found much of history drab and boring, full of wars and wrinkled old kings, oft more mad than not. The only history she'd ever paid much attention to were the tales of gallant knights and romantic couples such as Florian and Jonquil. She'd never met her Florian or her gallant knight. Only a cruel prince, a drunken fool, and a stupid Hound.

As the night fell, Sansa found herself growing cold. The plains were dry and almost treeless, and her stomach growled and bubbled in hunger. She forced the mare East for a half league and they managed to reach the river before the sun set. As her horse swallowed mouthfuls of water, Sansa cupped some in her hands and drank gratefully. She was thirsty enough to ignore the biting cold of the water and the slightly bitter after taste. There were few trees around, and she knew not which roots or plants were edible. Ary would know, she thought. Her younger sister seemed to have a knack for the rougher, wilder side of life. She'd always hated it, but Sansa found herself dearly missing Arya. She missed Robb too, her sweet older brother, and sweet Bran who was crippled now in Winterfell and little Rickon, her mother, and her father.

Sansa bit back tears and unsaddled her horse, tying her by the bridle to the thin trunk of a nearby sapling. She rolled out her furs, crept inside them, and forced her eyes closed against the cold swept off to sleep by the gentle lull of the river.

…

Sansa awoke at the first light of dawn to the sound of something rustling. She snapped open her eyes and looked around. There was no one that she could see, but she quietly pushed off her furs, wincing at the sudden loss of heat. She heard the rustle again, and caught sight of a small hare shuffling through the grass, stopping here and there to raise its nose and smell the air. It was only a few arms lengths away from her and seemed not to have noticed her. Eyes locked on the rabbit, she slowly pulled the dagger from the sheath beside her. She'd slept with the weapon under her covers.

Sansa slowly pushed herself to her feet, crouching low and making as little noise as possible. The hare hopped a few feet to the edge of the river. Sansa began edging toward it, trying to ignore the hollow pain in her stomach that spurred her toward the rabbit. Sansa was three steps away from leaping range of the animal when a stray gust of wind blew from behind her. The rabbit immediately rose on its hind paws and swiveled its head. Sansa made a run for it, but the hare was much quicker, and darted past, disappearing through the tall grasses. Sansa groaned in frustration, falling to her knees and throwing the dagger down. Her mare whickered and shook her head. Sansa glared at her, frowning.

"We can't all live off grass like you," she retorted. The horse only pawed at the ground and snorted. _What would I have done, even if I had caught it_? Sansa thought bitterly_. Killed it? Skinned it? Eaten it raw?_ She could no more kill a rabbit than start up a fire from stones and sticks.

Sansa ignored her growling stomach and mustered up the strength to throw the blanked and saddle over her mare, allowing the horse to take a drink before tightening the girth, mounting, and riding north once again. As she made her way, she found a small dirt path diverging northwest from her current bearing. Sansa decided to follow it for a while, with hopes of finding people that could guide her toward Riverrun. As a precaution, she tied up her hair with a thong from within her sack of jewels, secured the sheathed dagger around her waist, and pulled the hood of her cloak over her head.

She was not disappointed. By the time the sun was high in the sky, she came upon a man with a cart full of hay and wine barrels, empty from the way they clattered hollowly. He was small and stout, thickly mustached in earthen clothes and a thick woolen cloak. He flicked the reins of an old plow horse whose dappled gray coat matched its owner's shade of hair.

"Good day," Sansa called. The man swiveled in his seat, eyebrows raised as he caught sight of her.

"Well good day, my lady," he replied. "What's a sweet young thing like you doing alone on the road?"

"I'm travelling to Riverrun," Sansa replied. "Might you know if I am headed the right way?" The man rubbed his chin

"Well, I've ne'er been to Riverrun m'self, but I've met travelers that followed this road up until Stoney Sept or Acorn Hall, which isn't far from Riverrun, if I remember right. What might you be going up to Riverrun for, little lady? There's war coming up north."

"I have family there," she said, not untruthfully.

"Aye? And where are you hailing from then?" he asked.

"Duskendale," she lied.

"That's quite a long road," he said, genuinely surprised. "Have you been travelling alone all this time? There are outlaws and thieves in these parts, and the Bloody Mummers have been restless."

"The Bloody Mummers?" Sansa echoed.

"Bandits, thieves, outcasts." The man spat. "The lowest of the low. Led by some great monster from across the Narrow Sea is what I've heard. Call themselves the Brave Companions. Bah." He spat again. Sansa's mare sidestepped, eyeing the man's foul mouth for more projectiles.

"Would you know of an inn farther up the road?" She asked.

"There should be one not two leagues from here," the man replied, nodding down the road. A small place, but nice. I'm headed there m'self. Care to join me? I could use a bit o' company." Sansa smiled and eagerly agreed. She'd been travelling alone for so long that she missed good company. The kind that didn't yell and threaten her.

Though the cart made travel slower than Sansa would have liked, but she told herself the Hound had likely given up looking for her, or else hadn't followed the road and thought she would stay by the river. It was worth the pace though. Her mare seemed to appreciate, though Sansa occasionally had to rein her in to keep her from nipping at the bales of hay. She learned the man's name – Dormund Greywood – and was surprised to find him pleasing company. Associating with the commoner's had been her sister's habit, but she couldn't find it so appalling anymore, and the pain of hunger was almost forgotten.

Dormund told her of his home in Fairmarket, far to the north. He had spent a long part of the year south with his daughters in King's Landing before the war and the famine. They had been forced to stay behind, while he was to return home or find somewhere else to sell his hay. Most of the horses had been eaten, as were many of the dogs, cats, pigeons and rats. Sansa personally knew how voracious the commoners had become during the war, but the Lords had insisted it couldn't be helped. She remembered the fat chickens and goats she had feasted on in the halls as the remainder of Kings Landing starved on rat flesh and turnips.

"Tis a sad story," Dormund said, "but this is what war brings. There has never been a war without blood and siege and famine. From what I've heard, much of the north has been quieter, for now at least. Mayhaps I'll be able to make coin enough to buy a good marriage for my daughters. They'll be safer married off to some lesser lords then stuck in Kings Landing."

"Wasn't King's Landing attacked by Lord Stannis not long ago?" Sansa asked. He nodded.

"As the battle seemed all but lost, a new army cut in, defeating Sannis' mainland force. I've heard stories that they were led by the ghost of Lord Renly himself. It was poor of him to die. If anything, he was a better man than his brother."

…

By late afternoon, Sansa and Dormund caught site of a small village along the road, and within it, a quaint inn called the King's Tankard.

"But which king?" Dormund chuckled as they passed the sign. They left their horses at the stable and Sansa was allowed to store her non-valuable belongings in his cart. When they entered the inn, Sansa found it warm and well attended. The smells that filled the air had her stomach nipping once again, and she fought not to throw herself at the nearest table scraps. There were no bards, and she found herself thankful.

"Ah, it seems that fat fowl Dwain is here," Dormund announced. A large man in a white apron laughed and embraced her travel companion when he saw him.

"Dormund, my good friend. It's been too long." He spotted Sansa and grinned. "Is she one of yours? Don't tell me Hanya gave you that one, she's far too pretty." Dormund laughed at her blush.

"Oh no, I met Jeyne here on the road. It seems she split up with her father along the way up. The little lady's making for Riverrun."

"Alone? Best keep your guard up, Jeyne. There are scum aplenty in these parts," he warned. Sansa thanked him politely, reassuring him that she was doing fine on her own. She'd given Jeyne as her name when Dormund had asked. It had been the first title on her lips.

Sansa asked for a room of her own, a stew to gentle her stomach, and some cider.

"Well of course we can supply all this," Dwain said, eyeing her. "But have you coin?"

"I'll pay for her," Dormund offered. "It's only polite." The inn keeper rolled his eyes.

"You hardly have enough coppers for a room of your own, Dormund," he snorted. "I can't give free boons, even to old friends. Business is slowing because of this damned war and I have children to feed as much as you do." Sansa fumbled at the pouch she'd attached beside her dagger and pulled out a golden armlet inlaid with rubies and diamond.

"Will this pay for both our rooms and meals?" she offered. Dwaine stared and took the armlet, glancing warily about them before biting into the edge.

"May I ask where you got this?" he asked, eying the jewels.

"I would rather you not," Sansa said, "but if you must know, they are my mother's. She was highborn, and my father gave me her jewels once she passed." The man looked at her, but finally nodded, pocketing the piece of jewelry and leading them to a table. Sansa wasn't sure what to think about the lies that passed so easily from her lips.

As Dormund devoured a grilled horse steak with turnips and onions, a large, steaming bowl of thick stew was placed before her. She could smell meat and leeks and mixed the stew to find carrots, potatoes, and peas mixed in. It sent her stomach into a snarl, and she immediately began scooping it into her mouth. The first bite burned the roof of her mouth and left her eyes stinging, but she drank some water and took a second bite which wasn't so bad. She glanced up half-way through her bowl to see Dormund staring at her, and forced herself to stop and lick her lips.

"Forgive me," she said, "it's been several days since I've had a proper meal. I'm famished." The man gave her a queer look before breaking out into a smile.

"Nothing to forgive, my sweet," he assured her. "I'm surprised, you never said anything earlier." Sansa continued her meal, but more slowly. She wondered if Dormund had figured out she was a lady. She glanced at her empty bowl, and, after a moment's hesitation, dipped her fingers into it, sweeping up the scraps on the side of the bowl. She sucked her fingers, musing over what her mother would have said should she have seen her. Sansa remembered the Hound's advice – _Stop eating like a highborn lady, and maybe people won't figure it out. _

Sansa shook away the memory. She didn't want to think about him or his advice.

"So why exactly did you separate from your father?" Dormund asked as he ordered her another bowl of stew.

"My father found me at Duskendale. My mother was gone, my brothers at war. I'd never met him, but he decided to take me with him. We fought and I left on my own."

"What could have made you abandon safety for peril?" the man asked her. Sansa accepted a full bowl of stew with thanks and stirred it to cool.

"He hurt me," she avowed. "He's always drunk, and even meaner when he's not. He's rough and cruel, and says mean things, and he would threaten me and rough me up." Dormund raised his brows, nibbling at a fork of meat.

"Is he a soldier?" he asked. She hesitated, then nodded. "Did he ever physically harm you or beat you?" Sansa looked away.

"No, but he would talk of killing and raping like it was nothing. He said my brothers were the same as him."

Dormund smiled softly, fingering at his peppered mustache.

"Jeyne," he said softly, "you mustn't be so hard on your father. He's a soldier of war. He has seen horrible things no man ever should. War takes a man and turns him into a beast. Endless marches in stifling, heavy armor you cannot remove for fear of a stray arrow; hellish battles in which you watch your brothers fall screaming and clutching their innards as they spill out onto the ground; a gnawing hunger never sated by stale, tasteless bread and hard cheese, with an occasional bite of salted horseflesh if you're lucky. War is not a pretty thing, and it does not leave pretty scars. Your father is probably just trying to adapt. He came to seek you out, most likely to find somewhere safe and far from the wars. I'm sure he cares about you, but he may have trouble showing it. He has not known love for a long time, it seems. War has leeched it from him and taught him to fear anything he does not understand." Sansa shook her head.

"You don't know him. He's not afraid of anything." Even as she said it, she knew she was wrong. She remembered the time he came to her in the night of green flames. He'd been afraid then. Afraid of the fire.

"He is afraid, even though you may not see it," Dormund insisted. "He is afraid of loving. He has a young girl to protect, but all he knows is the strength of the sword in his hand, not the strength of his heard. He tries to drown his fears in alcohol, but they come back to him at night, in his dreams. He is afraid of change, of trust, and of love. He is afraid of what he does not know, and of what he has forgotten." Sansa was quiet for a moment then. Her bowl of stew was only half empty, but she was no longer hungry.

"Were you a soldier?" she asked. The old trader nodded.

"I fought in the War of the Usurper against the mad king Aerys. For almost two years I fought and marched and hungered and thought every day would be my last, but every morning I would march on and fight. It was a grisly business, and it took from me everything I had been. I was nothing more than a piece of flesh covered in metal to be thrown in a mêlée while the usurpers played their little game of thrones. When I returned to my family, it took me five years to become who I am today. I have set down my sword and taken up a commoner's trade, and I am too old and tired for this war. I love my children and my wife dearly, though I cannot forget how violent and cruel I had been when I first saw home." Sansa bit her lip, and Dormund looked at her kindly.

"You must find it in your heart to forgive him, child," he said, finishing up his meal. "Go back to him." Sansa shook her head.

"It's too late. I left many days ago, and even if I tried, I could not find the way again."

"He will follow you," Dormund assured her. "He will search for you. If he truly loves you, he will find you." Sansa gave the old man a small smile, but knew in her heart it was a futile thought. The Hound had most likely abandoned the search long since, and he wasn't her father. He could never truly love her. Sansa found the thought strangely disheartening, and politely asked to excuse herself.

"Go on, Jeyne," Dormund replied with a smile. "You have much to think on. I'll stay here for a while, drink some more wine." Sansa gave him a smile and went in search of the innkeep. Instead, she bumped into a less than pretty barmaid who offered her the key instead. Sansa took it and found her room, a small but clear place with a soft straw bed and a quilt she was pleased to find was stuffed with wool rather than made of it. She stripped down to her smallclothes and looked out of the small, glass paned window. It was darkening outside, but the sky was still a deep blue, and the hills in the east dark outlines. Sansa slipped into her bed and closed her eyes, and dreamed of stone-faced kings in the dark tombs of Winterfell.

…

**.:Author's Note:.** Comments, questions, criticisms? Leave a review!

I'm not quite sure how long it takes to get from Kings Landing to Riverrun, but I'm stretching it out a bit for narrative's sake. Also, there will be some spoilers from A Storm of Swords. Some MAJOR spoilers. If you've read that far, you'll know what I mean. But this will all occur in much later chapters, and I'll be sure to give warning beforehand. Basically I'm still planning on following the basic plotline of the books.

- Kerrigas


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

…

Sansa awoke to the sound of heavy footsteps and voices. A soft light filtered into her room through a small, glass-paned window. There was no way to know the time, but as she threw off the covers and padded over to look out the window, she reasoned it couldn't yet be past midmorning. Sansa shuffled back towards the bed, rubbing fatigue from her eyes. She'd left her dagger and sack of jewels with her clothes at the foot of the bed, rather than under her covers. There were no wild beasts and outlaws within her room.

When she grabbed her dress, the dagger went rolling off the pile and clattered to the floor. Sansa bent over to pick it up, and noticed something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong.

The sack of jewels was missing.

_No_, Sansa thought, mortified. She fell to her knees, looking under the bed, crawling around the room, overturning the pillows off the bed, tossing through her clothes, tearing out the sheets, lifting the mattress. She scanned the entire room, but it was gone.

Sansa tried the door, and it was closed. What happened? I'm sure it was with me last night. She remembered setting it down with the dagger as she'd stripped down last night. Her hands were cold and clammy, and her brow was hot and broke out into a sweat. She huddled on the bed, chewing on her lips and clutching at her dress. Finally, she stood up and threw the dress on. She tried to braid her hair, but her fingers kept trembling, and finally she simply tied it back with a black thong. She wrapped on her cloak and slipped into her shoes, cinched the dagger tight at her waist, and headed out the door, key in hand.

The dining hall was almost empty, save for a small family breaking fast at a table. A red-faced babe squalled in its mothers arms as she tried to feed it an oat and gruel porridge. The homely barmaid from the night before caught sight of her and approached.

"What can I get you, sweetling?" she asked with a hoarse voice and a sweet smile.

"My pouch of jewels is missing!" Sansa told her. "They were in my room I swear, and they disappeared!" The woman's smile wavered uncertainly.

"Jewels don't just disappear, my sweet," she said. "You probably misplaced them, or left them out here. No one could resist a bag of valuables."

"I didn't," Sansa insisted, "I had them with me at night! Someone broke into my room and stole them!" The barmaid's smile disappeared into an irritated smile.

"Was your door knocked down?" she asked. Sansa shook her head. "Then it wasn't broken into, assuming you didn't leave your key out the door. It's as silly a thing to do as carry around a pouch of jewels."

"But I had my key with me the whole time. Look, here it is!" Sansa pulled out the key, and the barmaid snatched it up, shoving it in a drawer full of other keys.

"Bess, what's going on?" Sansa turned to see the broad innkeeper approaching them, wiping his hands on a relatively clean rag. Dwain appeared unsurprised to see her, and he shooed the woman away.

"Jeyne, you're up quite late."

"My sack of jewels is missing," Sansa told him. "I've been robbed!" Dwaine shook his head sympathetically.

"Forgive me, child, but revealing your riches in a crowded inn was not very wise."

"But how could they have gotten into my room?" Sansa whined. "I had the key, I swear it to you." The man shrugged.

"I'm afraid I can't help you there." Sansa clutched the hem of her cloak. His evasive answers were beginning to annoy her.

"Where is Dormund?" she asked.

"He left much earlier than you," Dwain replied. The answer came as a cold shock.

"What? But… I thought we were going to travel together," she said, remembering the warm old man.

"You were still asleep by the time he finished breaking his fast."

"He could have come fetch me," Sansa replied. The innkeep was running out of patience.

"Be thankful he left your belongings in the stall with your horse," Dwain snapped. "And if you have no coin to pay, you may as well leave now." Sansa stood stock still and the innkeeper marched away, shocked by the sudden reverse in personality. Dwain had been kind to her yesterday. And Dormund…

Sansa stormed from the inn towards the stables. Her bag of belongings was draped on the ground beside the saddle and bridle. She called for the stable boy, who came trotting out of an empty horse-pen with a skin of wine. He was tall and lanky, with an ugly face and crooked teeth, and took the bridle from her as he downed the remainder of the skin and tossed it at the foot of the stall gate.

As the stableboy led her mare out, stumbling every few steps, Sansa noticed something glittering around his neck from beneath his soiled tunic.

"Stop, boy," she ordered. "What is that around your neck?" The stableboy frowned at her and then shrugged and tugged up a necklace of thin gold locks with a crystal pendant shaped in the likeness of the Mother. Sansa went cold all over.

"Where did you get that?" she demanded.

"You're a noisy little lass," he replied, slurring his words, then grinned. "How about I give it to you for a good fuck, eh?" Sansa resisted the urge to strike him.

"Answer me. How did you come about that necklace?" The stableboy gave her an irritated look, but grudgingly replied.

"An old man gave it to me. He told me to look over your bag, make sure no one stole it."

"What old man? What did he look like?"

"He had gray hair, or maybe it was a light brown," the stableboy replied, rubbing the wispy hairs on his chin. "And he had a big cart filled with straw and wine barrels. I would've gladly taken one of those instead of the necklace, but they were all empty." Sansa accepted the reins and watched wordlessly as the stableboy lurched his way towards the inn, snatching up the wine skin. Hands trembling, she mounted the horse, leading her out of the stables and onto the road. Sansa wondered whether if she rode the mare hard enough, she could catch up to Dormund. His horse was old, and it had a cart to pull as well.

_Why?_ She thought. _I haven't done him any ill. I even paid of his room and his food. He was so kind to me. _

But it wasn't anger she felt. It was there, but it had quickly deflated. All she could think about was why. Did the kindness of people really run this shallow? Sansa missed her family then. It seemed they had been the only ones she could trust. And now they were all gone, dead or far away. She rubbed at her eyes, and let the salty tears flow down her cheeks. Maybe leaving the Hound had been a mistake, she reasoned. But there was no way she could turn back. Sandor could be anywhere, even if she could retrace her steps exactly. Running after a naïve little girl would just be a waste of his time.

…

Sansa passed two villages down the road. She stopped at the second to water her horse at a well and drink up herself. Her throat was parched, and she wished for nothing more than a warm meal and the comfort of a featherbed, but since she'd lost her jewels, there was little left to bargain with. One man had offered a loaf of bread for her dagger, but she'd refused. Her life was more precious than a single loaf of bread.

After a restless night on a bed of pine needles at the edge of a forest hidden from the road, however, Sansa awoke regretting that decision. Her stomach was growling again, and restlessly. Her legs were weak and her thighs and buttocks agonizingly sore. She'd developed blisters on her fingers from tugging at the leather reins, and she hadn't had a bath in days. All her clothes were soiled and begged to be washed, but the God's Eye was leagues to her right, and the path by the Blackwater Rush had become too crowded for comfort. At the last village, she'd overheard a pair of sellswords discussing the price on Lady Sansa's head.

So Sansa found herself travelling between the two, using the sun to direct herself northwest. At the end of the second day, she nearly collapsed off her horse. I swear I can feel my stomach eating itself from the inside, Sansa thought bitterly. Even her mount was becoming increasingly frustrated by the sparse, dry grasses. As she settled down at the edge of a dense grove, Sansa raised her head, catching wind of a bubbling noise that set her heartbeat soaring. She dropped the bundle of fur's she'd been laying out and crashed through the bushes, and almost cried out as she caught sight of a small, bubbling stream. She fell to her knees, the dirt and soil seeping through her dress forgotten, and scooped up handfuls of water into her mouth. The water was bitter and gritty, but cool and refreshing nonetheless. Around her, she even spotted tangled bushes of wild blackberry. The fruit was small and dry, courtesy of the uncommonly cool summer, but they were sweet and filled her stomach. After she had sufficiently eaten and drunk, Sansa returned to her makeshift campsite and led her eager horse to the creek, cutting out a path with her dagger. She gathered more berries and shared them with the mare.

As the sun began to decline, Sansa dared a glance at her reflection in the water. She wondered whether even her father could have recognized her now. Her eyes were sallow and cupped by dark circles. Her hair was a tangled mess, stray wisps jutting out from the braid she'd attempted that morning. Dark juice was smeared over her lips and cheeks, remnants of the berries she had devoured. Her dress was covered in stains of berry, dust, mud, and wear. Sansa rubbed the juice from her hands and washed her face. She brushed her hair as best she could with her fingers. She'd had a beautiful golden comb in the jewelry purse, but that was gone now. The stains in her dress wouldn't leave, and she dared not wash them out with water as the cold night neared.

That night, Sansa slept with both eyes closed.

…

Sansa awoke to the taste of bile in her throat. It was all she could do to roll out of her furs before retching on the ground. There was nothing but water and bile and clumps of red berries that escaped her lips, but still she coughed and retched and threw up everything she'd eaten. When her stomach had finally stopped heaving, Sansa spat on the ground and waited until she'd stopped trembling to push herself to her knees. She dressed and rolled up her belongings, but it took her three tried to saddle the mare – her strength had all but abandoned her.

Sansa wanted nothing more than to wash out her mouth and eat more berries, but since she couldn't know which had gotten her sick, she left without touching either.

A few leagues later, the mid-morning sun angled over the horizon, and Sansa found a dusty road again. It appeared clear of travelers, and a thick forest flanked the road.

Thus, when the outlaws came bursting from the trees, it was far too late. Two swept in from the left to cut her off, and when her mare reared in alarm and made to turn around, three had already appeared, whooping and shouting. They were all dressed in a motley of mail and armor clearly scavenged from fallen corpses, sporting spears, crossbows, and swords. A particularly large man mounted on a nervous destrier whipped around a massive club, grinning at her from behind a broken nose and bushy beard.

"Well would you lookit that," one of the men shouted from horseback.

"Pretty little horse, you got there missy," another said. "Mind if we take it?"

"If you get the horse, the girl's mine," the huge outlaw barked. "She's pretty enough for a good fifty fucks."

"Yeah but then by the time you're done with her, she'll hardly be pretty enough for one," another growled. The men laughed, the large man loudest of all. Sansa gripped the reins with cold white hands. Fear had seized her heart, and a cold sweat broke out on her brow. One of the outlaws – a lanky boy who couldn't be more than seven-and-ten in a coat of mail that drowned his body and armor almost twice as wide as him – reined in his horse beside hers and tried to grab her, but Sansa's mare shied away at the last moment. Sansa was jolted back to her senses as the boy cursed and made to grab her from behind. She tugged the dagger from its sheath, nearly dropping it, and whipped it at the boy's hand.

The outlaw yelped as he caught sight of her weapon and quickly retreated, avoiding the knife's sharp kiss. The outlaws laughed even harder.

"The maid's got a sword," one of them cried, slapping a hand on his knee. "Looks like she almost got you, Tarth." The boy snarled and unsheathed his own sword, circling her angrily.

"Best drop that toy, girl," he snapped. "Wouldn't want you to get hurt."

"You stay away from me," Sansa bit back, though her voice was far smaller and weaker than she would have hoped.

"Don't you hurt her, Tarth," the large outlaw called, licking his lips. "I need her good and alive."

"I'll just take a hand, or an arm," Tarth bit back, eyes locked on her. Sansa whipped her dagger at him every time he got near, but every time he simply danced away and laughed, and as the adrenaline began wearing off her arm tired and ached.

"You're taking too long." One of the men finally growled. Before Sansa could wave her dagger around again, she heard the familiar twang of a crossbow and her mare reared, screaming. Completely unprepared, Sansa felt the reins torn from her grasp and felt herself fall and fall until she hit the ground on her back. The wind was knocked full from her stomach, and she gasped, choking on the air she couldn't inhale. Just as the world began to blur and darken, her lungs expanded and she gasped in a lungful of air.

Sansa felt someone kick the dagger from her hand, and she forced herself to roll over on her stomach.

"Someone get her on her feet." Sansa was suddenly jerked upwards by her left arm, and stood trembling, clutching her stomach with her free hand. She looked up to see a man dismount from his horse. He was tall and broad chested, with a handsome, cruel face. His eyes were an icy blue and his hair blue, with a cropped beard dyed purple and ornate armor that appeared to fit him well. He tore the cloak off her shoulders, and tugged her forward by her braid. Sansa squeaked as he nearly pulled her hair out, jerking her head around and eyeing her like a piece of needlework to be studied. Finally, he grinned.

"A maid of three-and-ten, with auburn red hair and gray eyes. Boys, I think we've found the lost Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell." A whoop went around among the men, and Sansa felt a kind of relief. If they knew who she was, they wouldn't kill her. They couldn't. The Queen wouldn't want her dead – she was a hostage.

"Forgive my manners," the man said, giving her a mocking bow. "I am your humble subject Karzak of Tyrosh." He straightened, regarding her with blue eyes far colder than her father's gray ones had ever been. "The queen offered good money for you, alive or dead," he man said. "What do you think, Timeon?" He glanced at a man still on horseback carrying a spear with a red silk scarf tied about his helm. The man shrugged.

"I hear she's worth twenty dragons more alive. Fifty dragons more with her maidenhead intact."

"You hear that, my Lady?" Karzak said, faking sympathy. "The Queen believes your maidenhead is worth thirty dragons. What do you think?" He waited, seeking an answer. Sansa licked her lips, fighting to keep her balance despite the weakness her fall had left.

"Shouldn't we give her to Hoat?" Tarth asked uncertainly. Karzak wrinkled his nose.

"The Goat can suck my cock. He doesn't need to know about what we found. The Lady is ours, and so is the gold."

"I… I could offer you more" Sansa begged. "One hundred dragons once you bring me to the castle. More if you wish. Please I… don't hurt me please…" Sansa trailed off as the men laughed again. She felt the tears rise.

"What do you say, men?" The Tyroshi man roared. "Is My Lady's maidenhood worth one hundred and thirty dragons?" The men roared nay. Sansa felt the tears spill down her cheeks and Karzak spread his hands.

"Forgive me, Lady Sansa. My men have spoken, and it is not for me to deny them." Sansa sobbed, falling to her knees.

"Please… a… a thousand dragons… I'll give you whatever you want just…" she broke off as the man behind her shoved her forward to land face-first in the dirt. Sansa screamed as her dress was torn apart from behind. One of the men shoved a bit of cloth into her mouth to keep her quiet. It reeked of vomit and alcohol and Sansa would have retched if anything remained in her stomach.

"Karzak, there was a rider who's seen us," Sansa heard Timeon say. "I could run him down."

"Don't bother. If he was alone, he was probably just a traveler who wants no trouble. If he was a knight, we'll be gone by the time the army gets." Sansa was distracted by the conversation as she heard someone approach.

"If anyone wants to fight me for the first bite, they're welcome to it." She recognized the voice of the huge outlaw with dread. When no opposition was raised, the man knelt beside her, and tore through her smallclothes with a dagger. Sansa thrashed as he tugged at her breeches, clawing at the ground. She could see her dagger, lying only a few feet away. With renewed strength, Sansa tore out of the man's grasp and crawled toward the dagger.

Just as her hands closed around the hilt, one of the brigands suddenly appeared before her and kicked. Sansa screamed through the cloth, pulling her hand in as close as she could manage. It stung fiercely and she could hardly move the fingers without searing pain.

"Better keep a stronger hold on your prize or she'll run off on you, Bull," the outlaw who'd kicked her warned with a snicker. The man named Bull grunted and yanked on her arm, shoving her to the ground and tearing off the rest of her smallclothes. Sansa sobbed, trying to cover up as much of her body that remained to her.

"Lookit her trying to be all modest," Tarth sniggered. "I bet she hasn't had her maidenhead for a long time. She's married ain't she?"

"Only engaged. We'll see soon enough if she bleeds," Karzak replied.

"She'll bleed anyway if it's Bull," an outlaw laughed. Someone forced her arms away from her body, laying her out on her back. Sansa closed her eyes and tried to pray, but only one face came before her eyes. She tried to call out his name, but the cloth choked her off.

A bloodcurdling scream tore her eyes open again. At once, the outlaws leapt to their feet, shouting. Sansa felt the weight on her lessen and the grip on her arms vanish. She immediately yanked the cloth from her mouth, gagging. Sansa pushed herself to her elbows and looked up, only to feel something hot and warm splash over her legs.

It was red and dribbled down her thighs like her flower's curse. She saw Tarth screaming, and all that remained of his right arm was a bloodied stump. The men who hadn't been ridden down had mounted, and charged at their attacker. Everything was blurred, and Sansa had to rub her eyes to clear the scene. The sounds of dying men and screaming horses and the clash of steel on steel filled the air.

By the time she'd cleared her gaze, Karzak's head was tumbling past her feet, his forked beard dyed red from the blood bubbling between his lips. Timeon and one other outlaw had made it past the attacker and were riding hard for the forest. Sansa looked up to see Bull jolt to a halt as a sword stabbed straight through his thick neck. He twitched and, as the sword was jerked out, slid off his horse and crashed into the dirt, unmoving.

The attacker dismounted, wiping his sword on the dead man's tunic and sheathing it. He bent to pick up her cloak, and approached her. Sansa felt her lip tremble and the tears spill over her cheeks.

"I'm here, little bird," he said, wrapping the cloak around her naked body. "You're safe now."

...

**.:Author's Note:. **Please don't hate me for this chapter. Sansa is far too naive to have lasted so long. Things will start to get sweeter from here on in. Also, I'm horrible at coming up with fantasy/medieval names, so don't give me too much trouble over that. Otherwise, the Hound's back!

-Kerrigas


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

…

Sansa didn't know how long it was that she clutched the Hound's armor, crying. It was cold and sticky with blood, and he smelled like he hadn't bathed since they'd left, as she was sure he hadn't. But she'd clung to him nonetheless, and he'd wrapped an arm around her shoulders and left it there as she cried and cried until her tears ran dry and her sobs made her throat hoarse and sore.

Finally, she pulled away and looked up into his face, momentarily surprised by the relief she felt, rather than the usual fear accompanied by the sight of his horrid scar. Before she could say anything, however, the Hound rose to his knees, offering her a hand. Sansa hesitated, awkwardly trying to adjust the cloak around her nakedness with one hand as the other was nigh useless. Sandor seemed to understand and gently held her by the waist and raised her to her feet. Sansa took a few seconds to balance herself on trembling legs, but finally managed to follow the Hound as he looked around for her belongings.

When he held it up, Sansa could see that her dress was all but useless. The fabric was as torn as it was sullied, and her smallclothes were cut apart to the point of being unusable.

"Where are the rest of your belongings, little bird?" Sandor asked, tossing aside the useless scraps. That was when Sansa realized her mare was gone.

"I'm… not sure. They were on the horse, but when they attacked she reared and ran away…" The Hound seemed satisfied with this answer, but not with her state. He removed his own cloak, draping it over her shoulders on top of the other. He knelt, and Sansa almost squeaked as he picked her up, cradling her in her arms.

_Just like a gallant knight_, Sansa found herself thinking as he helped her up into the saddle. After looting the corpses for their meager possessions – a few coppers and silvers, a new sword, and the dagger Sansa had taken - Sandor gathered up the two horses that hadn't fled the battle, relieving them of their saddles. He mounted up behind her, leading the two horses by their reins behind them, and headed down the road. Sansa dared one look behind her, at the three frozen corpses lying in the middle of the road. She turned back around, feeling queerly giddy.

As they rode, Sansa told Sandor about everything that had happened to her. She expected him to blow up at her, chide her for being a naïve child and going off on her own, but he said nothing, only stared ahead, one hand on the reins and the other wrapped snugly around her waist to support her in the saddle. A half-league down the road, they found her mare grazing by the edge of the road. She raised her head as she noticed them approaching, and shied away until Sansa cooed to her reassuringly.

Sandor picked her up from the saddle, gently setting her down and supporting her to the mare as the other horses bent their heads to graze. Sansa rubbed the mare's neck, and finally saw the arrow protruding from her rump. Sansa bit her tongue and approached the wound.

"Can you help her?" She asked. Sandor frowned at the arrow, and gingerly pressed against the horse's rump. The mare pulled her ears back and snorted, limping to the side. Sandor shook his head.

"I can't do nothin' for this horse," he said, "best relieve her of her misery." Sansa nodded, caressing the horse's muzzle as Sandor removed her belongings and unsaddled the horse.

"I never gave her a name," she said quietly.

"Good thing you didn't," the Hound replied, gently guiding her away. "You should look away, little bird." Sansa shook her head, resolved to see her horse to the end, but when Sandor positioned his sword beneath the horse's neck, Sansa closed her eyes before she could see him slice open the neck. She heard the mare attempt a scream as her neck was cut, and opened her eyes to see her slump to the ground, blood pouring from her jugular. Sansa shuddered and looked away.

"We should cut it up. Fresh meat isn't common," Sandor said. Sansa shook her head.

"No. Not her," she pleaded. Even if it was the wolves or other travelers that got to her, Sansa couldn't bear to feed on the horse that had born her so far. Sandor frowned but relented, saddling up a sturdy, roan-spotted horse with the mare's saddle.

"You should dress," Sandor advised, eyeing the pack. Sansa rummaged through the bag until she found some clean smallclothes and a reasonably clean dress. She knew she looked a mess anyhow – her hair was scattered again, she could taste the blood where her lip had split, Karzak's blood was still dry and crusted on her legs and her fingers and nails were covered in dirt. Though he had readied the horse, Sandor insisted that Sansa ride with him until she had recovered her strength. Too exhausted to fight him, Sansa allowed the Hound to lift her into Stranger's saddle and they left, the two horses trailing behind. This time Sansa did not look back.

…

It wasn't until she was jolted awake that Sansa realized she'd been sleeping. As she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, Sansa realized that they were in a small town. People bustled through the streets, calling out their wares, making for the local tavern, or riding their carts and horses filled with wares. Sansa looked around for Dormund, but saw no sign of the man.

"Where are we?" she asked, blinking groggily.

"A few leagues south of Acorn Hall," the Hound grunted. Sansa could see that he was not in the least bit pleased at wandering the streets of a busy town, with eyes everywhere. _The spider's eyes,_ he had growled to her in the last town they'd visited. It felt so long ago, now, and so far away.

"Why are we here?" she asked, glancing around and pulling the hood of her cloak up over her face, not that anyone would have recognized her anyway in her state.

"We need to sell this horse," Sandor said. "Stock up on food and wares. There will be no stopping between here and Riverrun. We're close." Sansa's heart leapt at those words. She would get to see her mother again, and maybe Robb as well. Sandor managed to sell the horse to a niggardly man haggled his way to half the horse's original price. Sandor didn't seem to care all that much, however, and took the money with minimal complaint.

They bought salted beef, goat, and horseflesh, as well as dried fruits, a variety of edible nuts and sweet roots, and a block of hard, salty cheese. Sandor also bought two loaves of fresh bread, and packed it in with the rest of their provisions. At one point, the Hound had disappeared and Sansa found herself silently panicking beside Stranger, but he quickly reappeared, a hulking, menacing figure over crowd of commoners, stuffing a soft bundle into her arms. Sansa unrolled it to find a lovely, earthen red dress sewn in soft, thick cotton layers and a coat of inverted sheep hide where the soft wool hugged the body to preserve warmth. She tried to thank him but he only grunted something about all her other clothes being unsuitable for travel further north and heaved her back up on the saddle.

Sandor finally stopped in front of a small inn and, after helping Sansa to the ground, led the horses to the stables and returned with their belongings, which seemed to have substantially decreased. Inside the inn, Sandor managed to work out a room first, and moved their belongings there first, before joining her at a table in the dining area. It wasn't crowded, but there was enough traffic to show the place was alive and acceptable, and the innkeeper was pleasant and jolly. But Sansa had learned not to trust easy smiles, and so kept her distance and said little.

When the food was placed before them – stewed goat with potatoes, carrots, and chives – Sansa devoured it without ceremony, ignoring the burn in her mouth as she spooned it up as fast as possible with one hand. Half-way through the bowl, Sandor placed a hand over hers before she could dish out another spoonful.

"Slow down, little bird," he grumbled, "you're going to make yourself sick." Sansa looked up blankly. Why was the Hound being so kind to her, after all she had put him through? As he caught her eye, she looked away, and nodded, slowly chewing each spoonful before scooping up another one. It was agonizing, and her stomach still felt cold and empty by the time she'd finished, but Sandor ordered a mug of hot spiced cider, and told her to drink that instead. The cider warmed her stomach and filled the hole quick enough. It didn't escape her notice that Sandor hadn't accepted a single cup of wine since they'd entered the inn.

When they finished, Sandor asked that a bath be prepared for her, and escorted her upstairs. Sansa insisted he take one of his own, or she threatened to leave him again. He finally accepted, but didn't leave her side until the bath was ready and Sansa could be attended to by a young maid the innkeeper claimed was his natural born daughter. She was so small and skinny, Sansa was immediately reminded of her little sister, though the maid was far less wild and much more shy. Natural born or not, the girl was still terrified when she saw the bruises, cuts, dried blood and other filth that covered Sansa's body. After the initial shock, however, she dutifully unbound Sansa's hair, washing it out with soap and brushing out the knots. She was much rougher than her handmaids at King's Landing, Sansa thought, but full of a sweet innocence she envied in her own way. Sansa soaked her injured hand and the little girl bound it up with the fresh linen they'd purchased at the market.

When she had been properly bathed and scrubbed and dried, Sansa put on her new dress and gave her cloak and surplus smallclothes to be washed. The girl-like-Arya led her to her room, and she entered a candle-lit room. There were two beds of grass hay so soft Sansa could almost imagine the featherbed mattress of her room in Winterfell. Maybe one day soon she could return with her mother and Robb, once Winterfell was rebuilt and the war was over. Jon could come visit too. She'd never been close to her half-brother, but she missed him more than ever now. As Sansa settled into bed, the Hound entered the room dressed in a clean tunic and breeches, dark hair still damp from the bath and his beard freshly trimmed. On his face, however, was a dark expression, and he immediately settled on his bed across the room.

"You mother is no longer at Riverrun," he growled. Sansa looked up, startled. She opened her mouth to ask, but Sandor continued. "She's heading north with your brother to the Twins for a wedding. Not the young wolf's," he added, noticing her surprise, "but your uncle's. A Tully." _Edmure_, Sansa thought. That made little and less sense, but she reasoned it had something to do with the war.

"What are we going to do?" she asked. The Hound shrugged.

"You can still go to Riverrun. Your lady mother's father has died, but Edmure rules in his stead. They will return soon, and you will likely be safe there." Sansa's heart tightened. She'd never been to Riverrun, and without her mother or uncle, it sounded as inhospitable as the boy king's bedchambers. "Otherwise," the Hound continued, "we can keep north and hope to catch up with your Lady mother's retinue at the wedding, or as they make their way back down. The choice is yours." Sansa paused, glancing up at the Hound, at the shadows dancing on the red welting scar. She remembered when just the sight of the mangled flesh would make her stomach crawl and the dark eyes would force her to look away. They did nothing now, but remind her of the blade that slid through the Bull's neck like butter.

"I wish to go north," she finally answered. The Hound searched her face and finally leaned over and snuffed out the candle, draping the room in darkness.

Sleep came grudgingly, that night. Sansa tossed and turned, her eyes wide open and drinking in the bare light of the moon and stars seeping through the window. Finally, she sat up in bed, rubbing her temple. The Hound seemed to be sleeping peacefully, his breath even. He wasn't snoring, as he wasn't drunk. Sansa stood up and walked over to the edge of his bed. She couldn't see very well in the dark, but she could see him well enough, his silhouette, the broad shoulders and messy bundle of hair.

"What is it, little bird?" Sansa started at the sudden address, though his voice was a soft rasp.

"I can't sleep," she said quietly, gripping the front of her dress with one hand. She heard him rustle, and though blind to his face, could sense his eyes on her. He said nothing for a while, and finally shuffled over, lifting the covers up in invitation. Sansa immediately slipped under the sheets, adjusting herself until she was comfortable and curled up against Sandor's chest. He smelled much nicer than before, though the soap did little to hide the strong, musky scent she found strangely comforting. The Hound felt as awkward as he must have felt, as he shifted his arm over her several times before she pinned it around her waist and he left it there, seemingly comfortable.

Sansa fell asleep almost immediately.

…

"How did you find me?" Sansa finally asked the question that had been nipping at the back of her head all morning. Sandor hardly spared her a glance from his saddle. Sansa had insisted that she could ride on her own that morning, though the bruises along her back and thighs still ached, and followed on Mule, her spotted horse. He was much larger than her mare, and far less lenient with her, endowed with a stubbornness for which she named him. She was forced to constantly tug at his reins to keep him from nibbling at the grass whenever they slowed to a walk to the point where the blisters on her one good hand had opened up again and the other would seize up with pain when she closed it. Sandor had finally tied the end of the reins to the saddle horn so that the horse couldn't lower his head past his chest, no matter how hard he tried. Thereafter, Sansa only had to tug on one rein or the other with a nudge of her heel and Mule would grudgingly obey.

"I searched," Sandor replied. Sansa narrowed her eyes. She almost liked him better when he snapped and growled at her. Since he'd rescued her from the band of Bloody Mummers, as he called them, he hardly ever spoke a word to her.

"Answer me, Sandor," she urged.

"You're not a very inconspicuous traveler, My Lady," he replied. Sansa winced at the biting tone of the last words. "A red-haired maid travelling alone is bound to draw attention." _And an armored man with a scarred face was so much less noticeable, _she grumbled to herself. If there was any gossip that had turned her head during her travels alone beside those of the Lady Stark, it was of Joffrey's Hound-turned-craven. There was almost as much gold on his head as hers, though she'd heard nothing about bringing him back alive.

"I couldn't keep to the river – there was no food," Sansa said instead. "I had jewels to trade for food and shelter."

"And where did that leave you?" Sandor retorted. Sansa flushed and looked down. She wanted to say something, but she had no desire to fight the Hound again. She heard the Hound sigh before her and look up. They had ridden since dawn, and the end of the day was nearly upon them, the sun an orange disk cradling the horizon in a soft light. They had been heading northeast to find crossing at the Trident before splitting off into forks. Crossing one river would be simpler than crossing three, though Sandor had insisted they travel along the Green Fork to avoid the Kingsroad. There could just as well be lions as there could be direwolves along the trail. Lord Harroway's town was still half a day to the north – Sansa was sure they could have reached it, but Sandor had kept the pace rather slow, and she fleetingly wondered if it was because of her injuries.

"We'll settle here for the night," Sandor said, motioning towards a thick patch of grass not far off. Sansa stopped her horse, untying the reins from the saddle horn, and dismounted, wincing at the pain in her thighs. A brisk wind had begun to pick up from the west as they'd ridden, and she could feel it more than ever now. They tied Mule to a rotting log and Sansa began unrolling their furs as Sandor unsaddled and brushed the horses.

"Can we make a fire?" Sansa asked, huddling beneath her cloak against the cold wind. Even the sheep's-wool jerkin did little to keep the cold from seeping inside her skin. She missed the warm walls of Winterfell. The Hound seemed to feel otherwise, however.

"A fire will attract unwanted company, little bird," he growled. "And we have nothing to make one should we want it." Sansa grumbled, tossing a fur over her back and pulling it close around her. She wondered how much warmth and protection from the cold the mail and armor must give the hound. He removed the armor but kept the mail and cloak and pulled out a loaf of bread, splitting it in two and handing one piece to her with a handful of dried fruits and a few slices of hard salted goat. Sansa ate and washed it down with some strong wine. Though she never fancied the drink, she hadn't been blind to Sandor's attempt at staying sober around her. That in itself was enough to allow him to buy a skin. She reckoned they would need it on the cold nights anyhow, and while foul, the drink did warm her up. Sandor took the skin and downed a few gulps before corking it and stuffing the provisions back with the rest of their belongings. He slipped under the furs, and when Sansa joined him, voiced no complaint. He threw the covers over them, slipping his arm around her to pull her close, and she burrowed close, protected from outlaws, monsters and winter alike.

…

**.:Author's Note:. **This chapter is a bit shorter than usual, so please forgive me. I'll try to update soon! Besides that, I am really quite flattered by the attention this story has attained, especially considering the prompt isn't all that original. Thank you so much to all my reviewers so far - any and all feedback is appreciated! The next chapter will be a treat~

-Kerrigas


	7. Chapter 6

**.:Author's Note:.** A quick **WARNING**: This chapter contains mature content of a sexual nature. If you are uncomfortable, you'll want to skip when it starts getting heated. Though, I did warn ahead of time and thus you shouldn't still be reading this if you are.

-Kerrigas

...

Chapter Six

…

Lord Harroway's Town was small and quaint, with a seven-sided sept for the pious and a stone roundtower visible from almost anywhere in the town. They made for a two-story inn, which was brimming with travelers. Sandor growled as he walked in, Sansa keeping close by. Several guests glanced at them, but if they recognized either of the travelers they made no sign of it and continued to eat. Sansa chose a seat by the wall, as she knew the Hound preferred, while he discussed housing with the innkeep, a comely woman. Soon enough he joined her at the table, pulling back his matted hair and glancing between the crowd of the inn and the cup of wine being poured before him by a young girl who looked to be only a few years older than Sansa.

"How can I help you?" she asked with a bright smile. She was pretty, Sansa noticed, with dark hair, wide hips, and rosy cheeks.

"Two meals – anything but horse – and a bath for the lady," Sandor rasped in a low voice.

"Jeyne," Sansa added when the girl had gone, slipping betwixt feasting families and men shouting for ale and wine. "My name is Jeyne when I travel." Sandor raised an eyebrow.

"Jeyne? Isn't that the name of your little friend back in King's Landing?" Sansa nodded, suddenly feeling shameful.

"I shouldn't have left her there," she said miserably. "The queen might question her, and Joffrey could hurt her. And she wasn't the only one."

"We couldn't have taken them all," Sandor said, shaking his head. "They're in no more danger now than they were before. They should have left soon as your father's head was cut." Sansa nodded, but felt no better about it.

It wasn't long before the serving girl returned with bowls of chopped goat roasted in garlic, tomatoes and spices with a loaf of bread and filled their cups with wine.

"You'd think there weren't a war at their gates," The Hound growled toward the mob, which laughed and drank and boasted and sang. Sansa shrugged, tasting the dish. It was slightly spicy, and the goat was well roasted and soft from marinating in the tomatoes, though lacked in salt.

"Maybe they don't know," she said. Sandor snorted, swallowing a mouthful.

"They'd have to be as blind as a bat not to see it. Even the north won't be still for long. As soon as the young wolf marches down south, there'll be another coming to devour the north. I'll bet my life on the krakens. And ill lot, them."

"You know the Greyjoys?" Sansa asked.

"Not personally, but Balon was quick enough to rise up after our fat king planted himself on the iron throne, and it was your father who took his last son as hostage. Doesn't leave fond memories, especially not in a man so proud as Balon Greyjoy."

"You shouldn't speak of the king so," Sansa said, looking down. "He was my father's friend." Sandor laughed.

"Which king? The dead one? All that brute was capable of was drinking, fucking and killing. But now he's about as likely to come kill me as I am of fucking a horse." Sandor lowered his voice. "And that bastard of a boy king can die screaming in his whore of a mother's arms, and don't tell me you wouldn't like to see it otherwise."

"I wouldn't put it so horridly," Sansa said quietly, glancing about them. Her hood was up, her hair tucked away and face hidden, but she was certain she could feel the cocked ears of the spider following her every word.

"I'd put it a thousand times worse if I could," Sandor spat. "I'm starting to think Stannis might be right – only a perversion like incest could spawn such a monster." Sansa winced.

"He wasn't so bad at first," she insisted. She knew she shouldn't be defending the boy who murdered her father and had her publicly beaten and humiliated, but she couldn't help protect that bit of innocence that had been such a prominent part of her not long ago. The Hound looked at her, shoving aside his empty bowl.

"And here I thought you'd grown up a bit," he snorted in a soft voice, almost sad. "You're still a stupid little bird enamored by a pretty face and a few kind words." Before Sansa could protest, he stood, gesturing toward the serving girl, who ushered Sansa away to the bath. A large wooden tub was already prepared and steaming, a welcome sight for Sansa's sore legs. They had begun to yield and adapt to the lengthy horse rides, and the cramps and sores were far less painful then when she had first set out, but her skin was still too delicate for such lengthy neglect. The bath was hot, almost scalding, but it numbed her pains and doubts and fatigue. She closed her eyes with a heavy breath.

"Would you like your hair washed as well, m'lady?" the girl asked.

"Yes," Sansa sighed. Her eyes fluttered open and she sat up, turning toward the girl. "Did you just call me 'my lady'?" she demanded. The girl smiled a coy smile and lowered her eyes.

"I did, m'lady." She gave a small curtsy. "I do have the honor of the presence of the Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, do I not?" Sansa immediately stood to her feet, backing up to the edge of the bath.

"What do you want with me?" she asked warily, glancing at the closed doorway behind the girl. It was barred and locked for privacy, or the pretense of such. But the girl only laughed.

"There is no need to look so frightened, m'lady," she said. "My mother and I are supporters of the young wolf. Not openly, of course, but my father fights alongside your brother, if, Gods are good, he is still alive. I am Ella of Blacksbane. Our family serves House Manderly, loyal bannermen to the Starks. We moved up north as tales of war moving south spread throughout White Harbor. Mum knows the owner of the inn, an old, sickly man, and she agreed to keep it while his sons were off at war in return for food and board." Sansa was still suspicious, but when the girl did not appear to pull out anything more dangerous than some soap, she allowed herself to seep back into the water.

"I was quite surprised to see your companion, however," Ella continued. "I had heard rumors that the king's hound had deserted during the Battle of Blackwater, but I never expected that he would be with you. Is it true he killed his first man at twelve?"

"I don't know," Sansa replied, though she remembered him telling her something of the sort once. Aside from his fear of fire, his hatred of his brother, and his derision for knights and the Kingsguard, Sansa knew next to nothing about the Hound - who he was, what his life had been like before becoming Joffrey's bodyguard…

"What is he like?" Ella pried, scrubbing her back with a damp, scratchy rag.

"Confusing," Sansa replied after a while. "I thought I was afraid of him. Then I pitied him. Then I thought I hated him. He's mean when he drinks, and he says cruel things. But most of the time he's trying to warn me. When Joffrey – the king – ordered me beaten, he would refuse, or stop him. When I was hurt, he was gentle. When I was threatened," she remembered the mob in King's Landing, the outlaws along the road, "he saved me without a second thought. He kills, and he says he enjoys it. But I feel like he kills because he has to. It's the only thing he knows." Dormund's words came back to her; _He has not known love for a long time, it seems. War has leeched it from him and taught him to fear anything he does not understand._

"What do you think of him now?" Ella asked, unbraiding her hair and gently combing through it.

"I'm not sure," Sansa murmured. "I… can't hate him. Nor do I fear him. He is kind to me, and even though he has trouble showing it, I know he is a good person."

"You're a proper lady now, then," the girl said. "Only a proper lady can look at a man and see who he truly is." Sansa wondered if that was true. Not so many moons ago she had looked at Joffrey and seen a handsome knight, and looked at Sandor and seen a monster. Now, the roles were practically reversed, though the Hound was hardly a handsome knight, and Joffrey was far more than a monster.

"M'lady." Sansa turned, and Ella presented her with a small pouch. Sansa opened it, dipping her fingers in to find a dark powder, almost black.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Dye for your hair, from the eastern lands. My mother acquired some for tapestry work, and I found that we still had much left over. Perhaps it would be prudent, m'lady, if you dyed your hair. The red does stand out, and is mentioned oft and again when the king's men come knocking." Sansa nodded.

"A good idea," she said. Ella dumped the powder into a bowl and mixed in water until a slick dark paste had developed. Sansa kept in the bath as the girl used a thick, horse-hair brush to comb the paste into her hair.

"Have you been travelling with the Hound since you left Kings Landing then?" Ella asked.

"We were separated for a few days, but for the most part yes," Sansa replied. The Blacksbane girl peered at her from behind.

"And he hasn't once tried to touch you?" she asked. Sansa stared at her, startled.

"Of course not," she sputtered. "I'm a highborn lady, and he must be more than twice my age." Ella looked surprised, but feigned a shrug.

"So he hasn't fucked you," she reiterated.

"No," Sansa muttered, reddening despite herself. "He hasn't tried to bed me."

"Either your hound is a far more honorable man than he seems, or he jousts from the wrong side of the lance," Ella declared. Sansa furrowed her brows.

"What do you mean?" she asked. Ella rolled her eyes.

"You know, like that Knight of Flowers, the pretty one who smells of roses from what I hear." Sansa was becoming more confused.

"Ser Loras is an excellent jouster," she replied. "I've seen him myself, at the Hand's Tourney."

"I bet my mother's dire fortune he is," Ella muttered with a snort. "My, you really are a proper lady aren't you." Sansa whirled around, sending dark dye from her hair splattering into the water.

"Proper enough to know when someone's mocking me," she snapped. Ella raised her hands in a placating gesture.

"I'm not mocking you, m'lady. On my honor as a Blacksbane. It makes no matter, anyhow." Sansa gave the girl a suspicious look before turning back and allowing her to finish painting her hair.

"Have you lost your maidenhead yet then?" Ella asked as she massaged the remainder of the dye into the roots of Sansa's hair.

"No," Sansa mumbled. "I rarely saw the king apart from formal occasions, and I had only begun to bleed shortly before we left."

"There," Ella said, twisting Sansa's hair and pinning it up on her head. "We'll need to let it sit for a while now, for your hair to properly absorb the color. I'll go warm up some water, the bath must be getting cold." Cold wasn't quite lukewarm, but Sansa couldn't protest some additional heat. She knew she would miss it on the long, cold days ahead.

"What about you?" she asked as Ella set a pot boiling on a hearth of hot coals. "Have you lost your maidenhead?" Ella grinned over her shoulder.

"Many times, yes. The first was many moons ago. I must have been no older than you at the time. It was the blacksmith's boy. A tall, hardy lad. Plenty of muscles, a nice face, and a pretty smile. We did it under the gods and the stars in the inn's stables. Mum would've flayed the skin off our backs if she'd found us." Sansa glanced at the girl, who stood dreamy-eyed by the fire.

"Did it hurt, the first time?" Sansa asked. Ella shrugged.

"He was a big lad, as most blacksmith's boys are, so his cock was plenty big. Sure it hurt at first, but it doesn't take long for that pain to turn to pleasure, and every thrust hits you to your bones, and you find yourself wanting more and more and more until…" she trailed off, glancing at Sansa. The lady of Winterfell sat transfixed and strangely hot all over, flushing as she noticed Ella's knowing look, and looked away.

"Until what?" she asked. Ella smiled, taking off the boiling pot with a thick towel and dumping it into the bath. Sansa sighed as the warmth immediately washed over her body.

"A woman can finish much as a man can, only infinitely more pleasurable," Ella whispered. Sansa swallowed.

"How… how would you know?" she asked in a small voice.

"There's tales of a skinchanger who took on the body of a woman as she was getting fucked," Ella said, trailing her fingers in the bath. "Said it was the only time he'd ever wished he were a woman." Sansa flushed.

"That's not possible. Skinchangers aren't real," she said.

"It doesn't make any matter," Ella shrugged. "Either way, a woman's pleasure can last far longer than a man's. Do you think you could find pleasure with the hound?" Sansa flushed and looked away.

"Of course not," she stuttered, though she couldn't help notice how feeble her exclamation was. "I told you why."

"I speak of pleasure, m'lady," Ella laughed. "Not marriage. If you marry some other boy lord, there's a good chance he's either fucked some other girl himself already, or he's never had a girl so he couldn't tell whether you're a maid or not. And if an older man, you're pretty enough that he'll forgive you. I ask you again, do you think you could find pleasure in Sandor Clegane?" Only a few moons ago, Sansa would have recoiled in disgust and vehemently opposed such a proposition. Only now, she hesitated.

"I'm… not sure," she said, avoiding the older girl's prying gaze. "Maybe."

"He's not so hard to look at," Ella added. "Sure the scar is a bit distracting, but you said yourself you've seen past it. He's a soldier, so he's bound to be fit as a destrier under all that armor. And despite any misgivings, I'm sure if you offered yourself up willingly, there is no way he could refuse. He doesn't seem Ser Loras's type." Sansa ignored the jibe about the knight of flowers and tried to think of the hound. She tried to imagine him over him, grey eyes boring into her, looking at her, his rough, calloused fingers touching her. He would be gentle, she knew. He would smell strong and musky, like leather and steel. She shivered, and Ella grinned, helping Sansa out of the bath and into a thick, soft towel.

"You could see it couldn't you?" she said, pointing to a bench beside the bath. Ella reached up, unbinding Sansa's hair and letting it fall loose around her. Black drops of ink spilled from her hair, dotting the bath water with little dark spots. She slid back and let Ella massage the ink from her hair into the water, trying to ignore the heat between her legs hidden by the towel. It was because of the stupid Blacksbane girl and her talk of men and pleasure, planting the image of the hound in her head. But no matter how hard she willed it, when she tried to picture the knight of flowers over her, or Lancel Lannister, Robert's pretty squire, or even the handsome Lord Renly, their faces would fade and melt into the hound's welted scar and his soft grey eyes. Sansa shuddered when something hot and wet touched her neck. She opened her eyes, and Ella nipped at her collarbone, sliding her fingers gently along Sansa's neck, over her nipple, below the breast, brushed her stomach, which emitted a short, shocked breath, and stopping right over the towel. Sansa inhaled sharply and though a voice in her head screamed that it wasn't proper, she couldn't bear to push Ella's hand away.

"He will touch you," Ella whispered, one hand brushing through Sansa's hair, the other brushing up and down her stomach and breasts. "He will kiss you," her hand touched Sansa's nipple, "he will nip you," she pinched it slightly, "and lick you like a dog," the hand gently squeezed her breast before wandering down again. "He will undress you with his hands, slowly and gently, with shaking fingers, or rip them off in a passionate frenzy." The hand slipped under the towel and Sansa stifled a gasp. "He will tell you how beautiful you are, how he's wanted this from the moment he first saw you," Ella's fingers stroked up and down, eliciting a pleasured mewl from Sansa's lips and easing her thighs open. "He will love your body, and crave it, and when you are finally undressed, he will thrust deep inside of you," Sansa choked back a cry as one of the girl's fingers slipped inside of her with ease, wet as she was, "and he will never leave you," Ella murmured into her ear before slipping out. Sansa gasped in heavy breaths, her body still reeling from the onslaught of feelings entirely new to her. She and Jeyne had oft giggled about their bedding nights, imagining what it would be like.

Ella washed the last of the ink from her hair, pouring a bucket of clean, lukewarm water over her head and drying her hair with a towel. "Now, you are Sansa of dark hair. You look far more a peasant like this," Ella declared. Sansa wasn't sure whether the comment was meant to be a complement or an insult.

"My name is Jeyne when I travel," Sansa said. "Jeyne of Duskendale. And the Hound is my father. I'm not sure what name he goes by. I doubt he needs one." Ella nodded in approval.

"Good. A simple name, and now you look a Jeyne, though the hound would have to have been my age when he fathered you. Come, let's get you dressed." Ella helped Sansa into her dress and a clean pair of smallclothes. Before guiding her out, Ella looked her over, running a hand though her damp hair and unlacing the top of her dress slightly. Sansa reddened.

"What are you doing?" she said, narrowing her eyes.

"The first step to seduction is looking the part," Ella declared. "You're beautiful and developing very well. You need to strike his interest. You're not a little girl anymore. You're a woman, and he needs to know that."

"I'm not going to sleep with him tonight!" she exclaimed as softly as possible. Ella rolled her eyes.

"I'm talking of seduction, not sex. Seduction is a lengthy process. You want to instill interest, slowly and surely. That way, when you're finally ready, he'll be as willing to please as a dog." Sansa made to protest, but the girl opened the door and lead her to her room.

"How do you know so much about seduction and… loving and such?" Sansa asked in a hushed voice as they ventured down the hall.

"My mother worked in a brothel in White Harbor before we moved here. Taught me everything she knew, though I don't think she expected me to start so young." Ella opened the door, allowing Sansa in before her.

"I present to you Jeyne of Duskendale," Ella announced before closing the door behind Sansa. The Hound was seated on the edge of a large bed, sharpening his sword with a whetstone. He looked up when she entered, a look of surprise dawned his face as he noticed her hair.

"You colored your hair," he mentioned. "Good." Sansa hadn't realized how stiff she was until he addressed her, and could manage no more than a nod. She wasn't sure what to be more uncomfortable about – the one bed in the room (though she knew it had been her who'd insisted on sleeping with him in the first place), the way that he looked at her and how she found herself wishing he would look at her differently, or the sudden desire to throw herself at the Hound and make love to him then and there. She shook her head. Thoughts like that wouldn't do. _I'm just a silly girl overrun with curiosity,_ Sansa told herself. _I'm not ready yet. Besides, Sandor still thinks of me as a little girl. He even said it. I have to show him I'm a woman first._

Sansa slipped under the covers, though she wondered if a woman grown would insist on sleeping alongside a man for comfort and protection from the dark.

**…**

**.:Author's Note:. **Well it wasn't quite a sex scene, but we're getting there. There are delicacies involved in this relationship that need to be resolved before anything happens. Next chapter will be in Sandor's POV, for a change. Don't expect anything sentimental.

- Kerrigas


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

…

The little bird's eyes were oft on him. Sandor wasn't about to dive into the reason why that might be, especially when she'd always spent more time avoiding him than otherwise. Though, when he glanced to meet her gaze she would quickly look away. That clearly hadn't changed.

They had seen two dawns on the road since crossing the Trident at Lord Harroway's Town - the moon was round and ripe allowing them to travel longer days. Sansa seemed almost shy to share his furs now, and he'd first mistaken it for reluctance until she'd vehemently opposed his proposition of setting up her own bed. Perhaps she had finally realized that it was a man she slept by, not a straw-stuffed suit of armor with a sword.

There were times Sandor wasn't sure whether to laugh or frown over the little bird's blind trust in him. Twice he'd cut down men who'd recognized him as they traveled through towns and inns or along the roads. The first time she had cried and hit him, the second she'd looked away, biting her lip. She wouldn't talk to him for the remainder of the day on those occasions. Still she followed him like a lost duckling, chirping here and there, sending him small glances.

She'd lost weight since they'd left King's Landing. There was no denying it. Even under the layers of skirts and dresses and cloaks, he could see it in her sinking face. The Stark girl was a highborn lady, used to lavish, filling meals in thick sauces that would keep her sustained with only a few bites. Sandor was accustomed to fasting on salted meats, dried fruits, and stale bread for many a fortnight as he marched with thousands of other armored soldiers into battle. The same rations were plenty filling for him on the road. Granted, the feasts at King's Landing had given him a taste of much sweeter foods, but spices and sauces did little for him. Only wine and meat kept him alive, and it was all he needed. Sansa, however, was a small, dainty thing, and when he wrapped his arm around her in the cold nights, he almost felt he might break her.

"We'll stop here for now," Sandor announced. A small stream trickled by the road, and Sandor was sure it would lead them to the Green fork. The noonday sun was hidden behind wispy clouds, quaint warnings of their heavy brothers further up north. Sandor dismounted and helped Sansa from her saddle as gently as he could, though he never missed the winces as she took to the ground. Sandor never knew what to do with her, how to behave around her. He was like a hound handling a chick – there was no way to pick it up without the danger of harming it with sharp teeth. One bite and the little bird would snap.

Sansa seemed to understand what he was thinking then, and frowned. "I am not so weak anymore," she said, looking away.

"You're still healing," Sandor replied. It was truth – she could not deny it. She'd unwrapped her hand the night before, but the fingers were still swollen and she had difficulty curling them entirely. Her thighs were always sore from the riding, and though many of the purpling bruises from the attack had healed, she still grimaced at any sudden movements.

"I can dismount my own horse," she replied, but it was without forcefulness behind it. She had talked of this before, but still he aided her. There was no real reason why. No, of course there was.

Sansa suddenly laughed. It was a sad, bitter sound. Sandor had never heard the little bird laugh. Not truly. Not for him. He doubted he ever would. "What is it, little bird?" he asked instead.

"It's strange," she replied wistfully. "The only people that have ever been kind to me at Kings Landing were the ugly ones. You. Lord Tyrion. Ser Dontos, even. But the handsome, gallant knights I always dreamed would whisk me away… they abused me or ignored me."

Sandor shook his head. "Life isn't a song, little bird. There are no gallant knights, or gentle saviors. There are only killers and cravens."

Sansa smiled a little. "I know which one Joffrey is."

They settled down not far from the river. They had met no travelers along the road. Sandor allowed himself to doze during the nights, but never a heavy sleep. He drank less, and slept lighter. But it made the slight body pressed against him during the cold nights that much more unbearable.

Sandor admitted that while he adamantly called Sansa a girl – repeatedly told himself that she was naught but a maid – it was hard to ignore the growing beauty of the woman she was becoming. She was already tall for her age, slight, but with pronounced curves and breasts that filled her dresses. Her face was soft and unblemished; her hair shimmered in the colors of the leaves before winter struck them from the trees. It was no wonder that she was attracted to songs and stories when she looked as if she'd walked straight out of one.

Thus, his nights were quickly becoming short and sleepless. Sandor didn't really mind – he was used to spending entire fortnights awake with short snatches of sleep every now and then. But without someone to share the watch, his nights were generally short either way. He wasn't about to let an exhausted little girl stand watch for outlaws and cutthroats. She was a small thing, and weak-willed, filled with an innocence he couldn't help but fiercely protect. Maybe that had been why he'd sought her out, on that night of green flames, why he had rebelled against his master and attempted to be gentle when he'd been cruel. As gentle as a drunken fool of a dog could be.

There were times when he nursed a third horn of wine and wondered whether it would have been kinder to leave her at Kings Landing. There, at least, she would be warm, with good food, a feather bed, and knights to protect her. But when he sobered up, he would remember the cruelty of the boy-king, the poisonous kindness of the queen, and the craven knights who would watch a girl abused and violated before the court without raising a word of protest. Then their road seemed the lesser of two evils. At least here he could protect her, even if she did not trust him.

After bundling up the supplies the next morning, Sandor noticed the little bird twitching and pacing, hopping from foot to foot like Moon Boy.

"What is it?" he snarled. She started, though he had not meant to be so curt, and a strange flush crept up her cheeks, though she kept her gaze low.

"I… never thanked you for saving me," she peeped. "From those outlaws."

Sandor grunted. The little bird and her gallantries. There was always a new one to chirp. "Save me your courtesies, little bird. They were no bigger rats than the ones in King's Landing, never mind their swords." The girl sighed and said nothing. He supposed he could just have accepted the thanks – simple courtesies seemed to be her only armor. It had protected her in the court, but here petty words would procure nothing save a few laughs and bawdy jokes. He led the horse-named-Mule over by the girl and made to help her up, but her brow furrowed and she addressed him first.

"Why did you come back?" she asked.

"Didn't your septa ever tell you it's rude to ask so many questions?" he growled. She always asked too many questions, this one. Incessant and unending questions. She at least had the decency to look ashamed.

"Forgive me, I'm only curious I…" she trailed off, looking away. "I thought you surely would have left or forgotten me." The Hound rolled his eyes.

"What use would there have been in all the trouble I took to getting you out of that shithole only to have you shipped back or killed?" he snarled. "Now get on your horse, we have leagues to cover if we want to reach your brother before the end of the damn wedding." The little bird mounted her horse, her gaze fixed on the pommel of her saddle. Sandor cursed himself silently, mounting up on Stranger. He always found himself yelling or cursing at the little lady. It wasn't that he meant to. He just couldn't help it. Her naïve innocence always rubbed him the wrong way. Surrounded by snakes and spiders and lions, she had no way to protect herself. Even some flowers have thorns that prick the delicate finger.

Then again, it was that naivety that had drawn him to her. That blind, trusting innocence he both loathed and yearned. Any innocence he had ever known had been burned away the day his loving older brother thrust his face into the brazier. In a way, Sandor wanted to protect what purity remained the poor northern girl after being thrust into a pit of snakes. But he could never stand the way she cherished her tales and songs of gallant knights of heroes. Knights weren't heroes. His brother was proof enough of that. No hero burned villages, raped women, and murdered children in their homes. But that's all the knights were. Mad dogs or tamed hounds, it didn't matter. Sandor growled under his breath. He'd had enough of that. No more bowing under the will of a loveless master. The prick of a boy-king could go hide beneath his mother's dress while the whole kingdom burned for the two shits he gave.

Sandor was so distracted by his thoughts that he nearly missed the rider approaching them from behind. Sansa whispered his name, and he glanced back, cursing his own foolishness. It took him half a heartbeat to recognize the rider, though it took the rider longer to recognize him. He was a young boy with messily cropped sandy hair, a long comely face, and a pointed nose. He'd handled Sandor's horse more times than he could remember. A stable-boy turned squire for some knight or another, and if he was here, then the knights couldn't be so far away. When the squire's face fell upon Sandor's grisly scars, despite the hair he'd brushed over them and the hood darkening his face, he flushed a milky white and jerked his horse to a stop. Sandor cursed, and Sansa looked wildly between them.

"What's wrong?" she asked. The boy reeled his horse back, and put his heels to the animal. A mistake. Sandor charged ahead on Stranger, tugging out his longsword. He quickly managed to cut off the squire's horse, which reared as Sandor swung for the boy's head. The rider was so shocked by Sandor's sudden approach that when he leaned back to avoid the sword's strike, he slipped off the rearing horse, hitting the ground with a cry. Sandor heard the little bird cry out, but ignored her as the horse rushed past, dismounted and approached the boy with sword in hand.

"P… please ser, I… don't hurt me," the boy squealed, scrambling backward as tears welled in his eyes. He'd already pissed himself, and trembled so hard at the mere sight of Sandor's sword that the hound almost laughed. Suddenly, the stupid bird was in between them, clutching Sandor's sword arm.

"Don't hurt him, Sandor," she cried. "He's only a boy!"

"He's a knight's squire, hardly a boy," Sandor snarled. "And if he's here, that means there are other lions on the prowl." The little bird paled at that, and appeared so visibly shaken he thought he'd finally be able to gut the boy, but her hand remained wrapped around his wrist. "Let me go," he growled.

"No," she said adamantly. "He's still just a child." _He's your age_, Sandor wanted to exclaim, _enough of a man to go running back and warn the knights of our presence. _There was no way he could hold up against an entirely cavalry of trained soldiers, useless as they were. Sandor shoved her aside, only to see the boy had managed to scramble to his feet and was running after his horse in the direction from whence he'd come. Sandor roared, turning on Sansa. She trembled at his fury, but he was past caring.

"Are you satisfied?" he snarled. "Now that damned child is going to let all the lions know where we are, and we'll be surrounded by nightfall. I'm lively to be executed on the spot, and you'll be dragged back to your precious king to be beaten and raped by all the knights in the kingdom, just as you've always dreamed!" The girl had taken to crying now, and fell to her knees, sobbing.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "I only… I didn't…"

"You didn't think, you stupid bird!" Sandor thundered. "How many times do I have to tell you, you don't survive in these lands with mercy and a soft hand. Only steel and blood will protect you." He placed the edge of the sword at her neck and she stiffened, her body still racked by stifled sobs. "I should slit your throat right here and right now," he snarled. "That would be a mercy for you. But I've never lived by mercies," he sheathed his sword. "We'll get to these Twins. And once we're there, you'll stay with your thrice damned brother and I'll finally be rid of you. If I'm lucky I might even get a sack of gold for all my troubles." That sent the girl into another wave of tears, and Sandor stalked angrily to her horse, unsaddling it and untying her belongings to secure them to Stranger. He left Mule's saddle and bridle on the side of the road, while the horse regarded them suspiciously before trotting off to graze on a patch of dry grass. Sandor dragged the little bird to her feet and lifted her into Stranger's saddle while she wiped at her nose and eyes with the hem of her cloak. He swung up behind her, one hand pressed tight against her waist and Stranger's reins in the other, and spurred the destrier forward to a gallop. They veered off the Kingsroad into the thin forest that flanked the foothills of the Eyrie. With luck it would hide them from any approaching garrisons along the road. Without his mount, the boy would take a while to notify his superiors. He was likely a scout and the full garrison wouldn't be more than a league away, but they had a head start on them and Stranger was built for enduring long marches.

They rode for most of the day, delving deeper into the thicket of forest while keeping north, the mountains closing in to their right. The forest was cold but dry, and they encountered no streams along the path. The stark bird was quiet for once – as were most of the birds in the forest. It was disquieting at best, as disquieting as the cold. _Winter is coming_, Sandor thought darkly, _and weren't those, ironically, the words of the she-wolf sitting before him_?

Darkness came quickly among the dark woods. Before long, the night beasts would join it. He halted Stranger in a small clearing of dead leaves surrounded by tall trees. Sandor lifted his charge from the saddle, light as a doll she was, and set her down where she shied away as he unbound their belongings and loosened the saddle girth. If the lions should come upon them in the night, he wanted the horse to be ready for a quick ride. Stranger wasn't pleased, but Sandor silenced him with a sack of stale oats and hard corn. This far north, Sandor has suspected that there wouldn't be as much fodder available to the horse along the road and so had purchased discounted grain in Lord Harroway's Town.

After relieving himself behind a tree and allowing the bird to do likewise, he laid out the furs, setting Sansa's next to his, close enough to keep warm but far enough for both their comfort. She accepted the arrangement without protest the same way she accepted the meager rations of salt pork, dried figs, and pine nuts. Sandor washed it down with wine. The vintage was poor, but strong and it worked its way down into his stomach the way he liked it.

After Sansa had run from him, Sandor had resolved to abstain from wine and drink. He couldn't forget what a food he'd made himself that day. There was many a night he cursed the girl for making him run after him, but for every insult he sent he added three for himself. Drunk as a dog and worse than useless, he'd hardly noticed the girl getting out of bed, and by the time he'd fully roused himself, it was morning and she was gone. He nearly slit the stableboy's throat when he found him dead asleep and in the thrall of drink.

But since recapturing the flightless bird, he'd found his resolve withering like a flower in the north. Between her frantic clinging and ability to send him into violent mood swings he himself couldn't control for whatever reason, the wine was the only thing able to calm both his temper and the heat between his legs. He made sure never to drink beyond function – it wouldn't do to have a repeat of the escape once more, though he doubted she would be so foolish after what the bloody outlaws had done to her. _Seven hells, dog_, he thought bitterly, _you're probably making the alternative sound better than your damnable company. _

"Get to sleep, little bird," he said, trying to soften his voice. "If we're lucky, we'll reach the Twins by the morrow." The Stark girl bobbed her head and slipped under the furs. Sandor debated another swallow of wine before capping it without and rustling beneath his own furs, his sword within close reach.

Sleep did not come easily to the Hound that night. He lay still and even, listening to the sounds of the night. A percussion of cicadas, an owl's call here and there, the squeal of a mouse swallowed by some predator or another. Once he even thought to see a pair of golden eyes watching him from within the woods. He touched his sword, but they disappeared as quickly as they had come. Not long after, he heard Sansa rustling behind him, and suddenly felt something press up behind him. Sandor looked over his shoulder and snorted softly – the little bird had decided to make her nest along his back again, clinging to his tunic. Her eyes were closed and her breath soft, she was still asleep, but nestled against him seeking warmth and comfort in a way that sent jolts of heat pooling into his stomach and cock. Sandor debated shoving her away, but quickly dismissed the thought. She needed her sleep, and it seemed he would have to do without.

…

They made good time the next day, riding out at the brink of dawn. If the little bird had noticed the way she'd drifted during the night, she made no comment of it – he'd been up and about far earlier than she'd woken. Unfortunately, after a few leagues the forest began to veer to the left, and a small clearing opened up, revealing a hitch in their plan. The steep foot of a mountain loomed before them. It wasn't high, but made up of steep, smooth rock rising in jagged peaks and ragged mounds toward its larger brethren to the east. Stranger was a destrier of battle, no sure footed garrison of the mountains. There was no way the horse could managed its way over the mountain, but going around the mountain would mean nearing the Kingsroad and risking capture. It was a risk Sandor had to take, however, and cursing the gods he urged stranger west along the foot of the mountain.

The scenery changed little through midday, though the mountainside almost seemed to rise rather than descend to the point where Sandor wondered how the Kingsroad would get around it when suddenly the road was upon them. Sandor sharply reined in the Destrier, glancing around for signs of other travelers, but the road was empty and continued straight into the mountain. In place of rock, the mountain appeared to have cracked open into a gorge wide enough to accommodate three horse-drawn carts side by side or five hefty destriers comfortably. Sandor bristled at the opening, hesitating.

"What is it?" Sansa asked, glancing up at him. _Of course she wouldn't know_, Sandor thought bitterly. The gorge was a two sided cage, and all it needed was a few soldiers on either side to box them in. Sandor glanced back, and finally urged Stranger into the canyon. The walls of ragged stone rose high and slick around them, with only a sparse piece of grass here and there that clung to the small crevices. Sandor urged Stranger to a trot as they neared the end of the chasm, allowing himself to breathe a sigh of relief as they passed back into the open. It was then that he heard the shout and the scramble of horses hooves before five men, all armored from hair to toes carrying spears, swords, maces and crossbows, raced forward to cut them off. He heard the little bird scream and whirled Stranger around to find dozens more circling them in every direction. Sandor grit his teeth, rage and adrenaline pumping through his veins. He knew better then to fight against the furious odds, but he knew he would be killed regardless and he doubted the wall was an option.

The little bird quivered beneath him, tears trickling down her face. Sandor snarled, unsheathing his sword, and charged.

**…**

**.:Author's Note:. **Finally a chapter in Sandor's POV. He's a bit difficult to write, to me, mostly because of his unpredictability. I don't want to make him a romantic, sappy character like many people do. He's still a hound on the inside. But he still has a soft-spot for Sansa, and the reason for that is rather vague in the series, so I've had to go along with some personal ideas. I kept my own voice/narrative, only added the Hound's reasoning and thoughts. I don't like changing narrative voice in this kind of story.

Many thanks to all reviewers thus far, in particular **JuliaAurelia**, **Vivienne Stark**, and **Midnightdawn** for their in-depth commentaries.

- Kerrigas


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

…

Sansa could only grip the saddle uselessly as Sandor threw himself in the midst of the battle. While he'd killed in front of her before, it was never like this – never so close. The first life he claimed was so covered in armor she thought him a kind of steel doll – that is, until the Hound had slashed below the man's helm and bright blood came gushing out, splattering Sansa's arms and face before slumping to the ground as his horse reared in terror.

Sansa wanted to scream, but her voice was hoarse and numb, and she could only watch in terror as the swarm of knights descended upon them and the Hound roared and slashed at them with his longsword. Even Stranger joined the battle, rearing and kicking and biting at the horses that dared draw close. Sansa could feel the hound shifting against her, slashing right and left to parry the blows aimed for him. Stranger's reins lay limp against his neck, his owner guiding him singly using the legs. Sansa looked up and suddenly, a spot opened up, large enough to dart through. Without thinking, she gathered up Stranger's reins and kicked him as hard as she could manage. The destrier reeled and shot forward, the Hound's sword snarling over her head to parry the swing of a mace. They were nearly free, just darting past the last defender, when suddenly Sansa felt something latch on to her arm and jerk her out of the saddle.

Sansa screamed this time as she fell. She just managed to curl up and cushion her fall with her hands, but the jolting pain of the ground hit her full force, cutting off her shout and causing her to bite her tongue. Sansa gasped, clutching her left arm where the pain was strongest and gritting her teeth against the pain. She heard Sandor screaming her name behind her and roaring and snarling like an angry dog. Sansa tried to tell him she was all right, to tell him to leave and run away before they killed him, but her voice wouldn't come and she only coughed and spat out the blood in her mouth and looked up to see Sandor whirling his sword around like a demon. _No_, Sansa thought for a wistful moment, _like a brave knight defending his princess_. The thought was gone as soon as it had appeared as she watched one of the knights slide his sword straight through Sandor's back.

Sansa cried out, the sound feeble and weak, but Sandor had managed to twist himself to the side at the last moment, the sword slicing through his right side. Enraged, her noble hound hacked the attacker's head off with his sword and continued toward her. Sansa made to struggle to her feet in an attempt to come to him when she was suddenly jerked upwards and felt the cold steel of a knife touch her throat. Sansa froze immediately, fear clouding up her vision and sapping all strength from her body. It was then that she realized she had been pulled over a monstrously large black destrier the likes of which she'd never seen apart from Stranger. The arm that encircled her waist was huge and thick with muscle covered in plates of dinted armor. The hand itself was large enough to twist her head off her neck. It was the hand of a man she'd only seen once before, and had remained terrified of ever since. A loud, deep voice rang out through the melee.

"Stop!" the man holding her commanded. "Don't anyone fucking move or the girl loses her head!" Sansa clutched at the arm that presented her neck at the end of a knife, trembling in the attempt to keep the steel as far from her skin as possible. She blinked away the tears that had welled up in her eyes, attempting to clear the blurry image of chaos before her. The soldiers around them had stopped and backed their horses up. She could discern four bodies lying dead on the ground, and a few more wounded from the telltale moans of several men still mounted. The mounted men were no knights, she then realized. They carried the banner and sigils of lions, but they were all clad in ill-fitted, dented armor that befit common soldiers. _Or worse_, she thought, _outlaws. The Mountain's men were supposedly no more than that. _

What frightened her the most, however, was the look upon the Hound's face. She knew of the past with his brother, knew what the man had done to him. But the expression Sandor carried was one no man should give his own brother. It expressed hatred and promised death. But Sandor was already half-way there – the wound in his side bled through the mail, and he had suffered a crossbow arrow through the shoulder. Still he sat upright in his saddle, his sword unsheathed and glittering red with blood. Stranger pranced and screamed, and there was blood seeping from numerous cuts along his flank. A man held a spear by Sandor's neck, and two others directed their crossbows at Sandor's chest and back. Sansa recognized the squire she had pled to be spared, tense atop his horse with his sword drawn, and choked back a sob.

"My stupid little brother," Gregor Clegane rumbled from behind her, his destrier snorting and pacing. "What are you doing with the traitor's daughter so far up north? You didn't really expect to take her home?"

"Let her go now, Gregor," Sandor snarled, readjusting his grip on the sword. "I could cut through every single one of these useless hides if I wanted to." The Mountain snorted, pressing the knife into Sansa's neck until it drew blood, and Sansa squeaked hoarsely.

"You're in no position to be making demands, Sandor," Gregor grunted. "I could slice off the little girl's neck before you even kicked your bloody horse. Or…" Sansa felt the hand around her waist slide up and rip the bodice of her dress open, wool jerkin and all. Sansa cried out, and the man pressed his palm against her mouth. "Looks like the little girl's been growing up," Gregor leered. "Maybe I'll take her right here, a present from his grace the king while his deserter dog watches."

Before Gregor could finish his sentence, Sansa saw Sandor reach behind him and something flew in their direction. Gregor's horse abruptly reared, sending the two of them tumbling down. Fortunately, the Mountain fell backwards and released her in his surprise, and she dropped from the horse and stumbled to her knees. The huge destrier reeled screaming, and Sansa glanced back to see a huge dagger protruding from his flank. She narrowly avoided a flailing hoof and began scrambling forward. Sandor was hacking at the men swarming all around him. Sansa was temporarily forgotten in the screams of men and horses and the crash of sword on steal and flesh. She scrambled away from stamping horses and scrabbled towards Sandor with no idea of how she was going to get through the chaos to him. A small opening widened before her between two horses, and she caught a glimpse of Sandor roaring, spurring his horse toward his brother. The older Clegane had managed to scramble upright and unsheathe his sword, and stood ready to knock down the Hound from his mount, even if it meant cleaving through Stranger himself. Sansa had seen him cut through his horse's head once. A monster's strength, they claimed he had. She never doubted it.

The rest happened almost too fast to be clear. Sandor charged his brother, sword outstretched. Another soldier's lance stabbed him straight through the back, and he spilled off his horse. Gregor advanced, great broadsword lifted high above him, making to sever Sandor's head off his shoulders. Then a horn blew, and a great wave of soldiers threw themselves into the melee, driving back the Mountain's men. Sansa caught sight of a white banner as the howls of men and horse alike filled the road. Dust filled the air, and Sansa stumbled to her feet, attempting to leave the chaos of dust and grit that filled her mouth and watered her eyes. She heard someone dismount beside her, and glanced up in time to see a large figure rush up and grab her arm.

Sansa screamed, struggling against the grip, which tightened the more she struggled. "Young lady, please. I'm not trying to hurt you. We want to help you."

Sansa relented in her struggling, but only because the dust had clouded up her vision and sent her into a racking cough. The man tugged her aside, and she was finally able to take a deep breath without the clog of dust. Weak and scared stiff, Sansa stumbled to her knees, the man's grip on her arm loosening as he eased her to the ground and knelt beside her. The man removed his helm to reveal a young face cupped by long dark locks and eyes the color of grass. Sansa coughed, gripping the man's plate of armor.

"My lady, you are wounded," he said, gazing worriedly over her neck and the scrapes and bruises along her arms. Sansa shook his grip away and gazed over at the mess behind them. The Mountain's men seemed to have either disappeared or joined the pile of corpses that littered the Kingsroad.

"Where is Sandor?" Sansa croaked. She coughed, clearing her throat, and repeated her words. The blond man furrowed his brows.

"Sandor?" he asked.

"The Hound," she pleaded, glancing about for any sign that he was alive and well. "Where is he? You must save him, he's dreadfully hurt. I saw it. It was the Mountain – he ambushed us. There were too many of them. It was my fault, oh it was my fault, no, no…" Sansa trailed off, feeling a sob rising to her throat. The man patted her softly on the back and draped her cloak around her front, and it was only then that she remembered her ripped dress and jerkin. The dress was the pretty red one Sandor had bought her at the market, and the thought sent her over the edge and into tears and darkness.

_So useless,_ she thought piteously, _I'm so useless. All I can do is cry. He saved me and all I could do was cry and get myself taken hostage._

_But it's not your fault,_ another part of her reasoned, _you were raised a lady. You were never born to fight, you never tried to fight – not like Arya._

_Arya would never have let herself be taken like this. And she would have let the Hound kill that stupid squire. Then we would both be safe and I would be with my mother and Robb again._ Sansa dwelled on that thought, even as she felt someone gently pick her up, cradling her, and for a moment she thought it was the Hound.

…

When Sansa awoke, it was to the comforting weight of a feather quilt and a crackling fire. The room was unfamiliar, with tall stone walls and little décor aside from a few discolored tapestries and a three legged chair, and cold despite the fire's glowing heat. Sansa pushed the covers off and settled upright on the edge of the bed. Her dress had been removed, leaving her in her smallclothes and a provided night dress, and lay at the foot of the bed. She picked it up, surprised to notice it had been re-stitched, albeit clumsily. The jerkin, however, was nowhere to be found, and instead a woolen coat and her travelling cloak had been folded on the crippled chair. The scrapes on her arms had been dressed and bandaged, and the bruises were slowly fading. She dressed, relieved herself in a private privy, and left the room through a creaking wooded door, taking with her a candle.

The hallway was dark, but she lifted the candle-holder to illuminate her path. The castle – as she assumed it was from the wide halls and tall stone roof – was eerily quiet, but she could hear the faint murmur of voiced across the walls. Sansa walked along the hallway, halting beside every doorway and pressing her ear against it to find the source of the voices. However, the further she moved in any direction, the more she felt she was losing her way. Finally, just as she was getting hopelessly frustrated, a door opened, and a middle-aged woman passed through, a lantern in one hand. She started as she noticed Sansa.

"What are yeh doing out of bed, little one?" The woman asked. "You should be restin' and gettin' up your strength."

"Where am I?" Sansa asked. "Where are the soldiers? Where is Sandor?" The woman approached her, taking Sansa's hand in her own and leading her down the hall.

"I can take you to Ser Mallister. He won't be pleased that you're up so early, but I suppose you must be hungry."

"Dreadfully thirsty, actually," Sansa admitted as she realized her throat was parched. "How long have I been asleep?"

"A good long time, my dear," the woman answered, prying open a rusty door. "They told me you were near the Twins when they found yeh. You're in Seaguard now, m'lady. I'd say you been asleep for at least three or four days, and that's in haste." Sansa reeled. _Four days? _She hardly felt as if she'd slept at all. They walked a short way from hall to room to hall, until Sansa was admitted through a pair of large double doors into the entry hall, where a group of men sat around a wide table, peering over maps. They all glanced up as she passed through the doorway, the old woman announcing her arrival with a nod to the group. One man pushed past the others – the tall, handsome man who had dragged her from the melee on the Kingsroad.

"My lady," he said, approaching her. "You are awake. You must be hungry, thirsty. Maela, fetch some food and drink for the lady." The woman bowed and scurried off. The man made a gesture of dismissal, and the remainder of the men left the room, wrapping up the map and leaving only a naked round table and two guards by the door.

"Who are you?" Sansa asked, after the room had been cleared. "I saw a white flag, my – the Stark flag," she said, correcting herself at the last moment. The man smiled at her knowingly.

"My name is Ser Patreck Mallister, first son of Jason of House Mallister, Lord of Seaguard," he said. "And you are the Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, I presume?" Sansa nodded cautiously. "There is no need to be afraid, my lady. I fought for your brother Robb in the Battle of Whispering Wood and accompanied him to the Twins for the marriage of his uncle Edmure Tully, a personal friend of mine." He grimaced, suddenly, looking away.

"Robb? My brother? Where is he? Is he here?" Sansa asked eagerly. "And my mother? Was she with you?" Patrek placed a gentle hand on Sansa's shoulder and led her to a longtable that had been cast aside, sitting her down. Maela crept in and placed a steaming bowl of stew before her and a cup of water. She sipped at the water but left the food untouched. Patrek seated himself across from her, taking her hands in his own. Sansa flinched at the unfamiliar gesture, one she used to dream of and now regarded with suspicion. There was no deceit in this man's eyes, however, only a sadness that drove itself deep into her heart even before he began speaking.

"My lady Sansa… there was a terrible betrayal. The Freys… you must understand, Robb had made a pact with the Lord Frey – a promise of marriage of his hand and your younger sister's to the lord's own children for a tactical crossing essential in our war against the Iron Throne. But Robb forsake his honor for a girl. A young girl, pretty, but of no exceptional beauty who he bed and wed, and thus dishonored himself and the pact he had made with the Freys. In an attempt to appease the outrage, Edmure Tully, your sister's Brother and Lord of Riverrun, was promised to one of Lord Frey's daughters, and both your mother and brother attended the wedding. There…" the man squeezed her hands, a look of fierce anger and sadness in his features. "Those damned Freys turned against us. They broke the sacred honor guest right and slaughtered your brother's men as they dined in the great halls." Sansa grew cold, and she had no need to hear the rest, for she already knew it. "My lady, I'm afraid that your brother was killed in the midst. Your mother as well. He put up a brave fight. A worthy fight. And your mother as well. She even slew one of them before they managed to cut her down." Sansa began shaking, but no tears came to her eyes. They seemed to have dried on the Kingsroad, the dust seeping all the water from her eyes. She only felt numb and lost.

"They're all gone," Sansa murmured. "My father, my mother. Bran and Rickon. Robb. Arya." Jon was at the wall, and too far for her to reach. And Sandor…

"Where is Sandor?" she asked, looking up. "The man with me. He was greviously injured. Please…" Sansa trailed off. Patrek looked at her quizzically.

"We found him. Sandor Clegane. He's the boy king's guard dog isn't he?" Sansa shook her head.

"No, no he deserted. He left," she gripped Patrek's arm, her arms small and clammy. "Please you can't have left him behind. He's taken me all this way, protected me. He's the only friend I have now, please." Patrek silenced her with a soft touch on her cheek.

"Do not worry, my lady. We took him with us. You kept clutching me until I accepted. He is wounded, but alive and healing. He is ridden with fever, but I have my maester with him day and night." Sansa breathed a sigh of relief.

"May I see him?" she asked. Patrek hesitated, then nodded.

"If you wish, my lady. But it does not make for a pleasant sight. The wounds are still fresh and healing."

"I will be fine," Sansa assured him.

"Fine, but please eat before. You have been several days with food or water besides that which Maela managed to pour down your throat in your sleep or short, wakened hours." Sansa obediently nibbled at the meal, but her stomach lurched after a few spoonfuls of stew so she accepted a horn of hot spiced cider instead and rose to follow Patrek. He led her back through the doors, down a hall and up a flight of circling stairs. Two armored guards were posted before the door, and bowed to let them pass as Patrek waved them aside. Sansa wondered whether they were there to make sure no one disturbed Sandor, or to keep the Hound in.

As soon as Sansa was admitted into the room, the sharp scent of blood and wine made her eyes water. She rubbed away the pricking tears and blinked. The room was small and cold, and several candles lit up the room on the left-hand wall. Dim cloud-obscured light streamed through and open window allowing a few fresh breezes in. Sansa hugged the cloak tightly against her shoulders and stepped around Patrek. Sandor was lying back, thick covers and furs covering his lap as an old, gay-haired maester gently washed the wound in his side. Sansa slowly approached the injured man, feeling her limbs go weak. A sheet of sweat covered his chest, and his bandages were soaked with blood. What she managed to glimpse of his hip wound before the maester bandaged it was a welted red scar sewn up in thick stiches.

"You shouldn't look upon this, my Lady," the maester said, glancing up at her from his work. His face was wrinkled but beardless and kind. Sansa was reminded for a moment of Maester Luwin.

"I'm fine," she croaked in a dry voice. The maester shrugged and began changing the remainder of the bandages. "How is he?"

"Holding on," the maester said. "I've never met a man with such will. Lord Patrek told me he rode all the way to Seaguard, having washed the wounds with wine bound himself up with cloth. Thankfully, he'd removed the mail – else the wounds would have festered." Sansa swallowed, and eased herself into a chair at the foot of the bed that Patrek pulled up for her.

The maester inspected a crossbow wound in Sandor's shoulder, dabbing at it with a cloth soaked in sharp wine. The covers shifted and Sansa suddenly heard a painstakingly familiar voice address her.

"What are you doing here, little bird?" the Hound croaked. Sansa immediately stood and padded around the maester. Sandor looked up at her with heavy-lidded eyes. Sansa took his huge hand in hers, squeezing it gently.

"I'm here to watch over you," Sansa whispered, not trusting herself to speak. Sandor's lips twitched, and he blinked slowly.

"This isn't for your eyes," he insisted. Sansa's lips ghosted a small smile before disappearing and she looked down.

"I've seen my father beheaded before my eyes. And I've seen many men killed and wounded." The Hound searched her gaze and sighed, returning a small squeeze of his hand.

"Sometimes I forget how much you've grown, little bird." He coughed, wincing, and the maester rose but Sandor waved him down with a grimace. "I'll have no more of your damned poppy. I've slept enough as it is."

"You're still healing, ser," the maester insisted. "Please shift to your side for me. No, not that way. Your right."

"I'm no ser," Sandor grumbled, turning obediently on his side. Sansa breathed in sharply as the maester peeled back the bandages covering a thick wound. A lance thrust, she remembered.

"You're healing well," the maester acknowledged, though the messy, stitched up hole surrounded by purple bruising and seeping with blood looked far from well to Sansa. "But it will take time."

"I know what would heal me right up," Sandor grunted, "and it's a cask of wine, a good fuck, and a sword to decapitate my bastard of a brother."

Sansa couldn't help but laugh, an act that received a few disapproving looks. Sandor glanced at her from over his shoulders, eyebrows up, but he shot her a grin and Sansa was reduced to a coy blush, coughing her way back to civility. Behind her, Patrek cleared his throat.

"Well, I'm afraid we won't be able to service your last two requests," Patrek said, frowning. "My men and I scattered or killed the Mountain's men while your brother escaped. The nearest whore will be found in the lower town, and I cannot personally attest to how… clean she may be."

"So you have your own personal wench then? Or is it just you and your hand?" Sandor grinned. Patrek looked so uncomfortable that Sansa had to slap Sandor's hand lightly and give him a reprimanding look.

"Stop being so rude to our host, Sandor. This man took good care of you," she said.

"Bah," the Hound spat. "His maester's the one who bandaged me up. Lord Patrek over there just stands around looking pretty and proper. He'd fit right in at the Court with all those other pompous bastards." Patrek's cheeks flushed with anger this time.

"Well, I was going to offer you a horn of the finest Arbor gold, but I see you could very well do without." With that the knight marched out of the room, cloak flapping behind him. Sansa rolled her eyes at Sandor and ran after the Lord of Seaside.

"My lord," Sansa called. Patrek stopped at the foot of the stairwell and glanced back. His gaze softened as she approached him, but he still held an air of irritation about him. "Please forgive Sandor," she begged. "He does not know… the delicacies of speech. He is a bit coarse, but he means well. I am sure he is very grateful for what you've done. He just has trouble with knights in particular." Patrek frowned and finally sighed, brushing a hand through his silky hair.

"I understand. He's… not exactly what I expected from the travelling companion of a princess. Especially for a knight." Sansa looked down.

"I'm hardly a princess," she quirked a smile. "And if he heard you call him a knight he'd stir up a racket. I'm sure a bit of wine would please him greatly, if you would be so generous." Patrek nodded.

"I'll have a servant fetch him a horn. In the meantime, please rest yourself, my lady. I'm sure you have had a rough voyage thus far. Maela will see to your care. She can have a bath drawn for you tonight if it pleases you." Sansa gave Patrek a polite curtsy.

"It would please me greatly. Thank you, my lord." Patrek gave her a tight smile and descended as Sansa returned to Sandor's side.

**…**

**.:Author's Note:. **Back to Sansa. So I took the liberty of introducing Patrek's character because he is only mentioned here and there, and it is mentioned that he was a close friend of Edmure and attended the Red Wedding. Rather than have him captured at the Twins and ransomed against his father, I decided to have him come back instead. A minor shift. I took liberties in describing Seaguard as well, as it is never really established.

- Kerrigas


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

…

It was two more days until the Hound was able to move around freely. Sansa had been making her way back to his chambers when she found him loitering in the main hall with a horn of wine and a plate of spiced venison set before him. One of the kitchen maids had rushed up to her as she left her room, muttering nervously about the huge, aggressive man that had stumbled into the hall demanding to be fed. He made more of an amusing sight then an intimidating one, when she finally found him in the hall, sitting alone at a long table, bent over his plate and devouring the meat with his fingers. He was dressed in a white tunic and brown breeches so short they stopped right below the knees, and wore no shoes or armor. His hair was matted like a mangy dog's, and his beard was unkempt and crawled with grease and bits of meat.

"Sandor, you should be abed!" Sansa exclaimed as she saw him. Sandor glanced up at her irritably.

"I'm sick of that damned bed," he growled, tossing aside a well-peeled bone. "I'm about to puke from the smell of my own stinkin' blood and my legs are stiff as boards from lying around like some crippled dog." Sansa sighed and sat beside him, settling her dress around her legs. Sandor eyed it over his horn of wine.

"Did the good ser give you that dress?"

"He did, actually," she replied, shifting in her seat.

"What, the one I got you not good enough?" Sandor snorted, gesturing at a passing maid for some more wine.

"It was fine until your brother decided to rip it apart," Sansa retorted. "As kind as Maela is, I'm afraid she's no seamstress. I've had to take it apart entirely to mend it." Sandor sucked at a bone, though he wouldn't meet her gaze after she mentioned his brother.

"What for?" he asked. "You're wearing a perfectly nice one now. Just burn the other if it's torn. Patrek looks wealthy enough to afford a dress or two. There don't seem to be too many respectable ladies around here, unless you count those whores he was talking about." The hound grinned and spat out the bone, wiping his hands on his tunic and thrusting his cup up to a girl holding a wine pitcher. She trembled so violently that the pitcher nearly dropped from her hands. Sansa finally took the flask from the girl, who shot Sansa a grateful look and the Hound a terrified one before running off. Sandor snorted. "I must look right more awful than usual to make her scamper that way. Women are generally more disgusted than scared of me, unless I threaten them. Which I don't make a habit of," he added, noticing Sansa's disapproving look. "Women don't make for a good fight."

"I heard tales of a woman who could fight, back at Kings Landing," Sansa said, filling his cup with wine. "Renly made her a knight. They call her Brienne. Brienne the Beauty. An awful name. She's supposed hideous." Sandor barked a hoarse laugh.

"That Tarth girl? I hear she bested the Knight of Flowers in combat. I would have paid a hundred dragons to see his pompous face when she removed her helmet. I'd enjoy fighting her, if she's all they claim."

"Do you like women who can fight?" Sansa asked. The Hound made a face in his wine.

"Women aren't made to fight. Not with swords. You have enough to deal with besides getting gutted. Anyhow, if all the women started to fight, there'd be a whole lot less sons and daughters out there." Sansa looked down at her hands.

"If I could fight, maybe I could have killed those men. Maybe I could have saved Robb and mother. Maybe my father would still be alive." There was a moment of silence, and she heard Sandor push away his plate.

"Don't blame yourself for that, little bird," he said. "There is little enough any of us could have done for them. I couldn't have saved them. The young wolf was surrounded by his own men, soldiers all. None of them survived. Well, except for your little lord over there. Probably turned craven as soon as the blood started spilling and left his good friend Edmure to bleed into the chicken pie."

"How are you feeling?" Sansa asked, ignoring the jibe towards Patrek.

"Better, now that there's real food and wine in my stomach," Sandor replied.

"You should go back to your bed now, rest yourself."

"And wait for that old skinsack to prod at my scars again? Bugger that, I need some fresh air." Sansa gave a resigned sigh.

"Alright, but allow me to accompany you. And you should at least put something warmer on. There's snow outside."

Sansa waited patiently as Sandor limped his way back up to his room, flinging the maester out with a roar and demanding his mail and armor. Finally, after much pleading from Sansa's part, he grudgingly accepted a thick sheep's-wool jerkin, cotton breeches, a pair of hardy leather boots and a fur-lined cloak. Reaching the inner courtyard, they stepped into a strong, cool breeze and almost a foot of snow.

"It's been falling for a week," Sansa declared. "Winter is here." Patrek shook his head. He'd accompanied Sansa when she declared she was going for a walk outside, though was considerably less pleased when Sandor had come hulking through the doorway.

"Winter is only starting," he replied. "The true winter is coming, and it will come hard." Sansa shuddered.

"I can only imagine what it's like on the wall," she said. "I wonder how Jon is faring."

"Jon?" Patrek inquired.

"My half-brother. Bastard born. He chose the wall when my father marched south with King Robert to become hand." That day seemed so far away now, Sansa mused. A time that felt simpler, when her dreams were still a plausible reality. Dreams that were cut off alongside her father's head.

"I see. We have gotten a few reports from them. Tales of wildlings marching south, assembling under some pretender king, making for the wall."

"Did you send any men?" Sansa asked.

"No, all able men were needed for Robb's army. The need was more dire here."

"I see," Sansa said. Patrek coughed softly.

"I could send some available men down, if it pleases you," he offered. Sansa looked up, smiling.

"That's very generous of you, my lord, but there is no need to send off the men protecting your lands." Sandor snorted.

"If he sends any men, they damned well won't be any knights or soldiers," he declared. "They'll be whatever's rotting in the dungeons at the moment. Freys, I hope." Patrek scowled, but said nothing. They walked across the courtyard, and at Sansa's request, Patrek guided them to the stables. Sansa greeted Mule with a rub on the nose, whom she had been told had been picked up at Sandor's request as they had ridden south. Stranger whickered eagerly when he caught scent of his master, and Sandor seemed quite pleased to see his loyal horse again, rubbing his neck and inspecting the healing cuts.

"We had our horse master attend to the wounds himself," Patrek said. "Said Stranger would be ready to ride within a few days."

"Good thing," Sandor grunted. "If you'd let my horse die, you'd have a dagger in the neck that would need immediate attending to." Sansa slapped Sandor's arm and glanced apologetically at their miffed host.

"Don't apologize for him," Patrek said as she opened her mouth to do just that. "He may be coarse but at least he's honest. Either way, I won't say I like him. And clearly he feels the same way." Sansa bit her lip, forced to silently agree. Sandor was behaving even more aggressive than usual.

"It's probably because he's been cooped up for so long. Sandor doesn't much enjoy lying about uselessly," she said. Patrek nodded, but his contempt for the deserter lingered until he was pulled away for another war council. Before going off, however, he pulled Sansa aside, well away from Sandor's ears.

"My lady," Patrek began hesitantly. "I would like to make you an offer. It is a tragedy about your family, and I cannot grieve enough for them all. However, if it pleases you, I would welcome you into my own home, in Seaguard. I'm sure my father wouldn't mind, and I can send him a raven if it would make you more certain. He is due to return any day. And if you find Seaguard too cold or dreary, we can certainly find you suitable accommodations. Joffrey is not a popular king, and I am sure many would be honored to protect the last lady of Winterfell, and I am certain they would be eager to help you rebuild it as soon as this war is over and a better king is crowned." Sansa stood, reeling from the unexpected offer.

"My lord," she stuttered. "I… how would you know that Joffrey won't prevail in this war?" Patrek shook his head.

"The boy king has made far too many enemies in this war. Cruel kings rarely last before someone rises up. His young brother is far more gentle than him."

"But it is Cercei who rules, truly," Sansa whispered.

"She won't last long either, I pray. And if she does, you will be perfectly safe here. Your mother's sister, Lysa Tully, inhabits the Eyrie, a near impregnable stronghold from what I hear, if you wish to stay with the last of your family. The Tyrells harbor enmity toward the Lannisters and are sure to offer you protection in Highgarden. Otherwise, I am sure the Martells will welcome you to Sunspear."

"You would have me go to Dorne?" Sansa exclaimed. "I thought the Martell's were loyal to the Iron Throne?"

"Only in appearance," Patrek said. "The Martells harbor a very deep enmity towards the Lannisters after years of slights on their house by Tywin. The attack on Princess Elia and her children by Gregor Clegane and other lannister men during the Sacking of Kings Landing only fueled that hatred. I am sure they would willingly protect you from the Lannisters. You may even be married to a highborn dornish lord who will rebuild and rule Winterfell when the war is over." Sansa bit her lip, looking down.

"This is much to think over," she said.

"Of course, it is an important decision. I will await your decision patiently." Patrek bowed and headed across the courtyard.

"What did he want?" Sandor asked. Sansa spun around and shrugged.

"Nothing of importance," she lied. "Would you like a bath? Your wounds seem to be healing well enough." Sandor snorted, barring the stall door after him.

"I bet I've started to look worse than I smell," he muttered, and leaned into her ear as he passed. "And you're still a terrible liar."

Sansa sent a few of the castle's serving girls to heat up a bath for Sandor. In the meantime, she finished sewing up the front of her red dress. There was still an obvious crease where the Mountain had ripped open the front, but she had sewed it up as best she could, stitching along the crease with red thread in a vine-like pattern. When she finished, she began adding the vines to other parts of the dress for décor, thinking over Patrek's offers. If she stayed in Seaguard, she would be surrounded by men once loyal to her brother. They would surely protect her, but against the might of the Freys and the Lannisters, there was little chance of them lasting so long. She had never met her aunt Lysa, and she had little desire to. Her mother never had much to say about her, and the isolation of the Eyrie sounded less than inviting. A life in Dorn sounded far more appealing if the Martells would indeed have her, but the trip all the way south would be long and perilous. The main roads were crawling with Joffrey's soldiers.

Sansa was so distracted by her thoughts that the two heavy knocks at her door caused her to drop her needle in shock. She set down the dress and went to open the door, and was surprised to see the Hound standing there. He was dressed in a fresh tunic and breeches that actually fit him, his beard had been shaved away from the unburned side of his face, and his hair still dripped wet around his face.

"Sandor, come in," Sansa said, stepping back. She fidgeted as the man stepped into her room, glancing around suspiciously and shooting a wary glance at the cracking fire. "May I ask why you're here?"

"I just came to make sure they weren't keeping you in some cold dungeon somewhere. I can see you're plenty comfortable though."

"Patrek has been a very gracious host. I've not felt myself wanting since I awoke. The bed is even stuffed with real goose feathers," she joked. Sandor grunted and made to turn back when Sansa reached out to grip his arm.

"Please, stay," she pleaded. "Sit down. I can fetch some wine. I can brush your hair, too," she offered. Sandor looked startled by her last suggestion and narrowed his eyes.

"I'm not a doll," he growled, but then barked a small laugh. "Though I suppose my hair must be a right mess. I considered chopping it off with a knife, but then I suppose all the maids would run screaming from the castle." Sansa led him over to a table and pulled up a cushioned chair well away from the fire. She knocked on Maela's door – the woman had been moved into the room adjacent to Sansa's chambers since she'd arrived – and asked for a flagon of mulled red. While waiting for the wine to come, Sansa picked up her brush and approached Sandor. He shot her a look before resigning himself with a grumble.

"So what did ser longlocks really tell you at the stables?" he grunted as she worked through the knots of his newly washed hair.

"He made me an offer," she said after a short pause. "He offered to keep me here at Seaguard, or to send me to my mother's sister in the Eyrie. He also said the Tyrells and Martells would take me in."

"The flowers?" Sandor spat. "Not while the court holds Loras Tyrell. The Tyrells are far too treacherous to be trusted. They've switched loyalties too many times for my liking. I doubt they would hesitate to ransom you if any one of their precious petals were plucked away. The Freys are marching for Seaguard as we speak, and somehow I doubt your mother's sister would want to harbor a fugitive. The Martells are far enough from the Lannisters to offer some protection, if they offer it that is. Snakes, the lot of them." Sansa tugged at a knot irritably.

"I don't see you offering any better ideas," she retorted.

"And you sound awfully ready to get rid of me for someone who's braiding my hair."

"I'm not getting rid of you!" Sansa exclaimed. "If anything, you would be coming with me." Sandor turned around to look her in the eyes, his welted red scar flickering in the firelight. It was not so frightening, Sansa realized. Just sad and angry. The sad wound of an angry man.

"And what about what I want to do, eh, little bird? What if I would rather go my own way? Travelling alone would bring me far fewer troubles anyhow." Sansa flinched, gripping her brush, and looked down.

"If that is what pleases you, it is not my place to stop you," she mumbled. Sandor stood up and approached her. He tucked a finger under her chin and raised her face to his.

"Stop hiding behind your courtesies, little lady. Tell me what you want, and tell it true. I'm not a knight, I'm not your father or your king. Don't lie to me – I'll know if you do." Sansa looked up into his dark grey eyes that were somehow comforting in their familiarity. She blinked back rising tears.

"I… I want you to stay," she croaked hoarsely. "I want you to stay with me always. I don't want to be alone again. There's no one else I can trust." She threw her arms around his back, burrowing her face into his chest. Sandor hesitated, and touched her back. She could feel him shaking his head.

"I don't understand you, girl," he rasped. "Of all people, you trust me? I could sell you to a knight of my choosing for a bag of dragons, or snap your little neck with nigh an effort." Sansa pushed away and smiled up at him with dry eyes.

"But you won't. I know it. That's why I want you to stay with me."

"I will, little bird." Sandor said. He chucked softly. "Not that I have much of a choice. My head's as wanted as yours anyhow."

**…**

**.:Author's Note:. **Firstly I would like to apologize for the long break between this and the last chapter. I just returned to university and the work load is insane already. So many papers! On the other hand, I would like to thank everyone who has read and reviewed my story. Over 10,000 views and 50 reviews! This is by far my most popular story yet!

This chapter isn't too exciting, I know, but it will start up again soon. And as you can tell, the Sansa-Sandor relationship is slowly becoming warmer, so you can expect some development over the next few chapters.

ps. I need to outline a critique speech for next week but I'm debating two topics -an analytic comparison of The Hunger Games and Battle Royale, or a critique of the adaptation of ASOIAF books into the Game of Thrones television series. Let me know what would be more interesting!

- Kerrigas


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

…

"How did this happen?" Sansa exclaimed.

"Ser Clegane seems to have gone out for a ride last evening," the maester apologized, wringing his hands. "He seems to have re-opened his wounds and developed a fever. One of his wounds has also begun festering, despite my efforts. He really should have stayed abed. I asked for his mail and armor to be hidden. Mail is prone to chafing the wound."

"Sandor is far too stubborn to listen to reason," she sighed. "Will he be alright?"

"I've leeched the wound, and we'll have to keep at it for a few days until the wound is healed. The rest needs time and rest. I've given him milk of the poppy so he should be quite calm for a while."

"I'll make sure to keep him abed if it means roping him to the bedframe," Sansa replied. The maester gave her a smile and a nod and scurried down the stairs. Sansa took in a breath and entered the room. The window was cracked open, but only slightly to keep the snowstorm that raged outside from piling onto the floor. The hearth was filled with glowing embers and small, wispy flames that clung to a blackened log, a testament to the lodger's aversion to fire. Sandor was covered in furs to his chest, snoring softly. His hair was soft and glossy and dark, his face finely shaved and clean. Sansa sat on the cushioned chair she'd pulled up beside his bed and picked up her dress. She was nearly done adding the vines along the sleeves and was working on elaborating the trail down the center of the dress when someone knocked softly on the door and entered. She looked up to see Patrek and smiled, offering him a seat on the maester's chair beside her.

"I only came by to let you know that my father will be arriving this afternoon," he said, declining the offer. He paused, then continued. "Have you considered my offers?" he asked.

"I've thought on them, but I will need more time. Sandor and I are trying to decide where would be safest for us."

"Sandor?" Patrek's eyebrows shot up. "He's staying with you?"

"Yes," Sansa smiled. "He's been most kind and loyal to me, and I trust him." Patrek did not appear pleased with this prospect but resigned himself with a sigh.

"I suppose I will have to allow it then. I can't say I will ever like the man, but he certainly proved himself. When we found you on the Kingsroad, he wouldn't let anyone approach him or help bind his wounds until he was sure you were safe and unharmed. Wouldn't let you out of his sight the entire time we rode to Seaguard." Sansa flushed and looked down at her feet.

"He is very protective, I suppose," she mumbled. Patrek snorted.

"Like a hound. I can't say I didn't suspect him when we first took him in – he had already betrayed his last master – but even a dog will bite the hand that whips it. He seems loyal enough to you. Still, he may not be enough to protect you out there. Wherever you choose to go, please allow me to offer you a few escorts, at least."

"I will discuss it with Sandor," Sansa replied with a smile and a curtsy. Patrek shot Sandor a look and left the room, closing the door behind him. Sansa turned back to her dress, taking apart the last few threads that had become messy in her lapse. In all honesty, Sansa was becoming quite bored. Seaguard was not a very large castle, and the only ladies inhabiting the court were the serving maids, all of who treated her with a kind of wary reverence most likely due to the way she was able to tame the beast of a guest. She was never able to get more than a few polite words out of them, and none would dare linger long in Sandor's chambers – not voluntarily anyways. She took mule out for a ride occasionally, but Patrek wouldn't let her leave the Castle walls for her own safety, so she was limited to circling the courtyard at a trot until her fingers started to numb from the cold. The Mallisters worshipped the old gods, so Sansa was allowed to pray at an old weirwood at the edge of a small wood to the north of the castle – but only if she was accompanied by a garrison of at least eight soldiers. Sometimes she would climb the western roundower and look out over the endless sea and wonder what lands lay ahead.

Sansa sighed and put the dress down to reach for a pin when she heard a muffled sound. She looked up at Sandor, but his eyes were shut. He twitched again, eyebrows furrowing as if in anger, and jerked his head to the side, grunting. Sansa put aside her dress and stood, approaching the bed. She touched the man's brow, and realized he was feverish. The maester had left a basin of water cooled with snow and a small towel, which she soaked, wrung, and folded and patted Sandor's brow and face with. He mumbled a few unintelligible words and quieted at the cool touches.

"Such a fool," Sansa murmured. Then, struck by a sudden urge, she leaned down and placed a chaste kiss to his lips. They were warm and dry, and one side was smoother than the other. She pulled away, slowly and reluctantly, and moved to sit back down when something caught her sleeve. Sandor looked up at her straight-faced and almost curious.

"Why did you do that, little bird?" he asked. Sansa bit her lip and looked down.

"I wanted to," she said simply. He looked at her, and then nodded, blinking groggily.

"That damn maester gave me poppy again, didn't he?" he growled.

"Only because you made him, opening your wounds again like that."

"And you're here to make sure I stay in bed, are you?"

"I am," Sansa replied. "And don't you try anything."

"Because you'll stop me if I do?"

"Well, I can't say I won't try," Sansa replied. "But if I fail, there are two well-armed guards outside this door waiting to clap you in chains and rope you to the bed should you try to leave before you're healthy." Sandor stared at her.

"Well damn me but I think the little bird's grown a mighty sharp beak all of a sudden," he grinned, then grunted. "That buggering poppy's tearing my head apart. Fetch me some wine." Sansa sighed and put and stood to call for a maid but Sandor waved her down. She raised her eyebrows in confusion. "You're too obedient, girl. You can say no once in a while."

"It's no trouble," Sansa replied with a small smile.

"You know, you're a lot more chipper when I'm injured," Sandor remarked. Sansa grinned.

"Well you're far less intimidating abed," she quipped. Sandor shot her a deathly glare, but Sansa only laughed it off.

"That's a pretty sound you make when you open your mouth there, little bird," Sandor said, and Sansa thought she heard a hint of fondness in his voice. She hid a smile and called for the wine.

…

As she passed through the corridors to retire to her chamber, Sansa heard Patrek call her name.

"My lady," he said politely and slightly out of breath as she turned to greet him. "My father has come. He has gathered council, and I am sure he would be delighted to meet you."

"I would be honored, my Lord," Sansa replied and followed the man into the great hall. There, Patrek's usual councilors and officers surrounded a table, though there were some Sansa did not recognize. In particular, she noticed a tall, stern-faced man with balding, pepper-gray hair with a face that could once have been handsome save for a crooked nose and cold, dark eyes.

"Father, I would like you to meet the lady Sansa Stark, heir of Winterfell." Sansa blinked at the introduction, and a hollow throb pulled at her stomach. With Bran and Robb and Rickon dead, and Jon at the wall, she was the rightful heir of Winterfell. _The only heir of Winterfell_, Sansa thought bitterly. Instead, she smiled politely and curtseyed. "My Lady, this is my father, Jason of House Mallister, Lord of Seaguard."

The Lord of Seaguard gave Sansa a stiff nod, glancing her over. He then turned to look at his son.

"I hope you do not make it a habit to house fugitives of the Kingdom in my castle when I am away, Patrek," Lord Jason said, his voice low. Patrek flushed and frowned.

"The lady was being assaulted by the King's men, a hapless maid held at knifepoint by the Queen's Mountain threatened with rape and butchery. I wasn't simply going to ride by, father." The last was spoken with bitter forcefulness. Sansa felt another throb at the description. She sounded like a useless child. A pity case. Lord Jason pursed his lips and sighed.

"I'm not faulting you for your actions, Patrek. Only your recklessness. The Iron Throne has likely heard of your attack on the Queen's men, and open rebellion against the throne does not go unpunished. We will either have to find allies or bend the knee, for the King's wrath will be strong when he hears what you have done."

"We still have allies," Patrek said. "Sworn bannermen to Robb. Not all of them attended the wedding."

"Most of them did. The lords, in fact. And with the young wolf dead, the north will scatter, ripe for the taking."

"There is still Stannis –"

"I would sooner bend the knee to the Throne than to Stannis," Jason bit. He shook his head. "Pardon me, my lady. I am not displeased by your presence. We've lost more than I could say with the death of your brother. He was a fine leader and a brave man."

"To his dying moment," Patrek swore. "A sword in his hand and the blood of his enemies upon it." Sansa nodded, looking down. The throbs turned into a wave of tears she fought to keep hidden.

"The Frey's will be upon us soon," Lord Jason announced, glancing back at his map. "They are close, and the Queen knows the value of Seaguard by the Sea. She will take no time in dispatching her new turncoats."

"Will we be meeting them in battle then?" Patrek asked. "Or guarding the castle."

"It will have to be battle. The Castle is sparsely supplied – the war has cost us many men who could have been tiling fields and supplying crops and game. We wouldn't hold a siege for long, and the Frey's will come prepared for the possibility. I will leave with the majority of our garrison."

"I will lead the vanguard," Patrek offered, but Jason shook his head.

"You will stay here. Should the battle fail, you must send word out to the last of the Northmen by raven." Patrek made to protest but his father cut him off. "The Frey's will collect the majority of the living survivors and try to ransom the castle. You will meet any demands they ask of you. This means that your esteemed guest must not be here when that happens. Should they find you here, it will be straight to the queen. Have you a place to go?" The Lord addressed her.

"Sandor and I are weighing the possibilities," Sansa replied. "It is unlikely that we will trouble you further. I only ask for the hospitality you have provided until he is fully healed."

"Ah yes," Jason appraised her. "Patrek told me you were accompanied by the rogue hound. Did you know I've crossed blades with the man before? No, I supposed you wouldn't. It was during one of the king's tourneys – you would have been very young. A fine lance and a better swordsman. As a man, he always remained a mystery. Full of power and hatred, he only knew to kill and to obey. It is good to see that he has found something to protect. Suprising, but good." Sansa smiled meekly.

"I will see to her protection," Patrek replied grudgingly.

"Good," Jason replied. "We will march within the fortnight."

…

Either by sheer force of will, or Sansa's constant care, Sandor managed to heal well enough within a fortnight. The maester still insisted that he keep from extraneous activity, but the man was allowed to walk the premises, accompany Sansa to eat in the dining hall, and even ride if he promised not to wear his mail or armor and avoid swordplay. He was generally rather quiet, but to Sansa's surprise, seemed rather comfortable around Jason, especially at the table – filling his cup and inviting him for another bout until she reminded him that he wasn't supposed to wield a blade yet.

"Perhaps after this damned battle, if we survive the thing," Jason replied and a small grin.

"It's likely we'll be long gone by then," the Hound replied, taking a long draught of a strong red.

"Have you decided where you will be going then?" Jason asked.

"I'm rather certain, aye. But I won't be telling you. Safer this way."

"Suit yourself," the Lord acquitted. "We can offer an escort of ten soldiers, should you will it."

"Half that number will do. We'll send them back once we get off the Kingsroad." Jason accepted this negotiation with a nod and, finishing the last of his wine, left the table.

…

Lord Jason Mallister departed with the entire garrison save for two dozen men stationed at Seaguard to guard against any ambushes against the castle and send out a raven should anything befall it.

Patrek was less than pleased as his father marched away at the head of an army, but kept his jaw clenched shut and saw them off from the ramparts.

"He'll be back soon," Sansa reassured him, placing a hand on his arm.

"Yes, and I pray it isn't just his head atop a pike." Patrek swept away and down the stairs, across the courtyard before disappearing inside the castle. Sansa sighed and descended, looking up as Sandor crossed the courtyard to greet her. He was dressed in full mail and armor, sword sheathed by his hip with a hand settled comfortably over it. Sansa would have chastised him had she not felt an enormous sense of relief at the sight. Despite the comforts of Seaside, the castle had done little to make her feel safe.

"We will be leaving soon, I think," Sansa admitted. "Ser Patrek does not seem very optimistic about the outcome of the battle."

"I wouldn't be either," the hound growled. "They're off to get slaughtered, the lot of them."

"Why do you say that?" Sansa frowned.

"It's true," Sandor grunted. "The Frey's will have them outnumbered two to one, not to mention they'll probably have some Lannisters join their cause. Seaguard is defeated – it's the last openly treasonous stronghold in the north. The Lannisters will take up the castle and put its occupants down like dogs."

"That's terrible," Sansa whispered. A sudden chill overcame her and she wrapped her arms around herself. "Isn't there anything we can do?" The hound shook his head.

"We can't help these people, little bird. Only pray the Lannisters are more merciful than the Freys. We'll need to leave, and soon."

"Yes," Sansa sighed. She followed Sandor back into the castle. As he made to go up to his room, Sansa reached out to clutch his tunic sleeve. Sandor stopped and looked back at her, eyebrows raised.

"Stay with me tonight?" Sansa asked in a soft voice, looking up. Sandor searched her face for a while, then sighed and nodded. Sansa smiled and led him to her room.

"Would you mind a fire? I can keep it small," Sansa said. Sandor glanced at the dimly burning coals in the fireplace and nodded. Sansa fed the fire a few stick and logs and a handful of dried pine needles, prodding at the hearth until a warm, steady fire crackled in the hearth. By the time she turned around, Sandor had already stripped out of his mail and armor, and was bent over to untie his boots. Sansa changed into her nightdress in the privy and emerged, brushing her hair back into a braid. Sandor was sharpening his dagger with a whetstone, the fire dancing and glittering over the soft steel. Sansa recognized the dagger.

"I'm sorry for taking that from you," Sansa said as she approached him. Sandor glanced up at her.

"I would've been angry if you hadn't. If there's anything I hope sticks to that empty skull of yours, it's the fact that swords are used to kill people." He held the knife up, allowing the blade to bask in the firelight. "A good knife can kills just as well as it can protect. It can take life as well as it can provide it."

"What do you mean?" Sansa asked, confused. The hound snorted.

"How would you kill a rabbit if you had no bow, little bird?" he asked. Sansa flushed and looked down.

"Well, I tried once. But I scared it away."

"You tried to kill a rabbit?" Sandor looked impressed. Sansa looked away.

"Just once. I was so hungry, and it was so close to me, so I… I picked up the knife and approached the rabbit all quiet but then the wind blew and it ran off."

"You'd have better luck sneaking up on me that you would a rabbit, little bird," Sandor said. "The small animals, the fast ones, you have to trap them. Though a well-aimed throw kills just as well."

"Could you teach me?" Sansa asked. "How to kill a rabbit?" Sandor grinned.

"I'll even teach you to trap 'em, little bird. Skin them, gut them. You'll be sick of rabbit by the time we get to Dorne. Here." He offered her the sword, hilt first. Sansa stared, glanced up at him then back down at the knife, and took it.

"For me?" she breathed. He nodded.

"You'll be needing one. I've got my own," he patted the sword sheathed across his knees.

"Thank you," Sansa said, curtseying politely. She picked the sheath up from the ground and encased the dagger, setting it on her bedside table before returning to stand by Sandor. He had resumed sharpening his sword with the whetstone, and Sansa noticed a slight wince as he reached out to slip the stone over the tip.

"You're still hurting," Sansa said. The hound shot her a glance.

"I'm healing just fine. It's only sore is what. Don't you mind it, if you know what's good for you," he growled. Sansa almost smiled at the defensive retort. And tugged at his tunic. He stopped, sheathing his sword and setting it aside, placing a hand over hers.

"You're always trying to prove how tough you are," Sansa sighed. "It's not a crime to hurt, Sandor. And if you can't show the others, you know you can show me. I won't tell. You will always be strong to me." Sandor looked at her, then removed his hand. Sansa lifted his tunic up and over his head, setting it on the bed. She inhaled sharply. Scars dotted Sandor's body like painted decor, pinkish welts in knots and slivers dabbed here and there. The most recent were still tied together by black thread like morbid seam work. Sansa ran a finger over a long pink welt that ran from the center of his chest to his belly button.

"I was stupid enough to refuse proper armor when I got that one," Sandor murmured. "A stupid kid." Sansa smiled softly.

"That stupid kid hasn't died yet," she said, looking up.

Then, she kissed him.

Sandor immediately stiffened, but made no move to shove her off. Sansa pulled away seconds later, eyes everywhere but meeting Sandor's gaze.

"Little bird," he said quietly, touching her chin. She flicked her gaze up to meet his, but there was no anger or contempt or amusement.

"I…" she started, then quieted, fumbling with her hands. "I really like you, Sandor. I know I am only a child, and my body is not yet grown nor appealing, but I..." she blushed a beet red and bit her lip, forcing herself quiet and awaiting his response. Sandor was silent for a short while, then sighed, and rubbed at his neck.

"You're no child, Sansa," he admitted. "You've long since grown into a fine lady. And I mean that in every sense." Sansa flushed deeper. "But I'm not the right person for you to be testing your… developing interests on."

"I'm not testing you," Sansa retorted. "If I wanted a pretty face and a title I would have accepted Patrek's offer to stay at Seaguard with him. I'm not that little girl anymore. You said so yourself." She hesitated, then reached out and touched his face, sweeping the hair away from his scar. "I chose you a long time ago."

"You're out of your mind, little bird," Sandor shook his head. Sansa smiled sadly and pressed her forehead against his.

"Maybe. But I've never felt so sure about being crazy," she whispered. She withdrew, and looked at him, waiting. He looked strained, uncomfortable almost. Sansa feared she may have thrust herself on him, while he still did not desire her. Her heart skipped a beat for one frightened moment until his lips met hers.

Sansa felt a warm glow fill her chest and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, opening her mouth and allowing him in. It was nothing like kissing Joffrey. That in itself had been rare, but when it had been, it was chaste or forced or cold. He smelled of flowers and tasted of spiced wine and sugared dates. Sandor was warm and passionate, and he tasted of sharp mead and meat and blood. She pressed herself against him until the lack of breath made her dizzy and she forced herself to pull away. Sansa slid her hands onto Sandor's shoulders, breathing heavily and glanced up at him.

"What's wrong?" she asked, noticing his pained expression. Sandor exhaled and stood up, forcing Sansa to step back a few paces, though she kept her hands on his chest.

"This… isn't right," Sandor muttered.

"What isn't right?" Sansa demanded, frowning. "I want this, you seem to want it. Why are you rejecting it? I am no child."

"I know," Sandor sighed. "But I don't think you do."

Sansa narrowed her eyes. "I know what comes after," she muttered. "I'm ready."

Sandor shook his head. "Not yet," he said. "You're not ready yet."

Sansa felt a pang of hurt in her chest at his words, but only sighed and rested her head upon his chest. "Can we work up to it then? Slowly?"

"Only if you are absolutely sure this is what you want," he said. Without a word, Sansa pulled Sandor to the bed and sat him down. She kissed him on the lips, then kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his scarred face. She kissed the knotted arrow wound on his shoulder, the welt on his stomach.

"I want you," she breathed, looking at him directly. Sandor touched her face and nodded, accepting another kiss. Sansa urged him over and they clambered into bed, throwing the covers over themselves. Sansa snuggled up against Sandor's chest, placing a last kiss on his collarbone before closing her eyes. He slung an arm over her waist, and Sansa smiled, falling into sleep.

When she awoke, Sandor was no longer beside her. Sansa sat up, glancing around groggily, until a loud creak made her jump. Sandor strode into the room, buckling his swordbelt on.

"Get up, little bird," he grunted. "It's time to leave. Sansa nodded, sliding out of bed and hunting down her dress. "Make sure to pack only what you need," the hound ordered, gesturing at a leather bag on the ground.

Sansa nodded, glancing at Sandor, who inspected and sheathed his sword into the scabbard. Last night felt like some kind of hazy dream, and Sandor's nonchalant attitude brought up a throb of fear that perhaps it had been nothing more than a dream. Sandor glanced at her, scratched his neck awkwardly, then stepped forward and planted a short kiss on her cheek.

"You'd better hurry up or I'm leaving you to rot here with your pansy prince," Sandor growled and strode out of the room. Sansa couldn't keep the silly grin off her face.

**…**

**.:Author's Note:. **Finally a little sweetness! The second kiss was actually totally not supposed to happen but Sansa decided in a spur-of-the-moment to do it anyways and I went along with it.

Aside from that, it's been a shitty week and I've pretty much exhausted my outline for this story, so from here on in it's kind of improvisation. Updates may not be as frequent either, because I'm involved in a retarded amount of stuff at uni (organizations, classes, meetings, etc), and I have a midterm on monday already, so please bear with me. My homework list is literally as long as my forearm. No kidding.

Anyway, please review. There's nothing like some literary feedback on a shitty day, or a good luck note from **Midnightdawn67.**

'till next time,

- Kerrigas


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

…

Ser Patrek escorted them out the castle, followed by a garrison of five fully armed and armored men bearing no banners.

"The men will guide you across the Crownlands until you cross into the Reach. Keep away from the cities – the spider's eyes are everywhere, even within the rosebushes."

"We will remember, and thank you infinitely for your hospitality," Sansa said. Mule whickered impatiently and Stranger stomped. A cold wind was blowing from the north, carrying flecks of cold snow. Sansa was warmly wrapped in several layers of fleece smallclothes, her sewn red dress, a new wool-lined jerkin, and the fur-lined cloak. Her hair had been re-dyed by the handmaids before their departure that morning, and hung loose and dark around her shoulders.

Sandor grunted and nodded and swung Stranger around, guiding the horse around the thickest of the snow. Sansa opened her mouth to say something else, but Ser Patrek raised a hand.

"I will pray for your safety. May the Gods keep you safe. Take care of your hound, as well. He draws strength from you."

Sansa reddened but did not turn away. "When this war is ended and Winterfell is rebuilt, I will not forget you," Sansa said. "I will come back and give you and your father proper thanks one day." Patrek smiled, but it was small and sad.

"I fear neither my father nor I will be alive to see that day, but I pray that you do. Soar, little bird, and let your wings guide you far."

With a final, teary nod, Sansa dug her heels into Mule's flanks and urged her horse around, cantering to catch up with Sandor, the guards following behind.

…

By midday, the snow had gone but the wind still blew hard and cold. They stopped momentarily for a short meal of bread, hard eggs, and dried fruit.

"Will you teach me to hunt today?" Sansa asked between bites.

"Not with these clinkering buckets of steel following us," Sandor growled. "They've probably scared away all the deer in the kingdom by now."

They continued throughout the day, joining the Searoad by mid-afternoon, and made good time down the road. Sometimes, when the wind slowed to a stop, Sansa thought she could hear the ocean, though the west was hidden in brush and heavy fog. As night began to fall, they made camp under a patch of trees a ways away from the road. One of the guards offered to take first watch and the others argued amongst themselves about which would follow up in what order.

"What's the watch?" Sansa asked Sandor as he threw out their furs.

"The unlucky bastard on watch gets to stay up for half the night and look out for unwanted company. Survival basics – a watch is always necessary."

"We didn't watch when we traveled," Sansa noted.

"Only when we stayed at inns," Sandor replied.

"I thought you slept too."

"Rarely. I can't sleep well without a roof over my head and a belly full of wine."

Sansa smiled, and pulled out a skin of wine from her bag. "Good thing I asked Patrek to keep us full," she said. Sandor snorted, pulling out his own. They each drank some wine before slipping under the covers. Sandor had draped out separate beds for them, insisting it was proper while they were escorted. It wouldn't do for Patrek to know they were anything more than a lady and her faithful guard. Sansa kept from pointing out that it was likely he already knew.

…

They traveled for many days along the Searoad. Company along the road was sparse and in between, and consisted mostly of poor farmers dragging their goods to the nearest city on the back of a creaking cart or graying mule. Few glances were spared at the company, though several momentarily cowered in fear, until the armed guard had trotted well past and proved unthreatening.

They cut across the Riverlands, found transport across the Red Fork from an old ferryman with a sack of gold and a silent threat, then followed the road east past Stonehedge, peeling away from the road to travel west of the God's Eye. Sansa felt a familiar sense of deja-vu shiver up her spine as she recognized the path was virtually the same they had followed coming up. They were back in the Crownlands, wandering right back into the Lion's den.

They kept further to the east, leading their horses through rocky mountainsides and dreary, rocky plains. After days of braving the trail-less lands, Sansa was feeling as sore and tired as she had at the beginning of their journey so long ago. Sandor noticed and insisted on taking more breaks, but the escorts pushed forward as quickly as possible. Sansa could tell they weren't feeling comfortable so far south from their homelands, always glancing nervously over their shoulders, hands tight on their reins. Even the horses were nervous, always snorting and pawing the ground, except Mule, who remained loyal in his apathy. Finally, they could see the Blackwater rush stretching against the horizon, the first river Sansa had crossed on her escape from Kings Landing. This meant the city couldn't be more than a few days east. Sansa shivered.

As they closed in, the escort suddenly stopped. Sansa glanced around, and caught sight of Sandor looking intensely to their right. She peered around him, squinting against the glare of a low-hanging afternoon sun. Suddenly she could see it – a small cavalry of soldiers carrying tall red flags galloping evenly toward then. Sansa felt a wave of nausea and panic hit her and turned toward Sandor.

"It's the queen's men! What are we going to do!"

"Calm yourself, little bird," Sandor assured her gruffly. "Don't you think his pompousness didn't prepare for the possibility of an encounter?" Sansa flushed at her naivety, but squirmed uncomfortably nonetheless. As the group of mounted soldiers approached, they slowed to a trot and walk, surrounding them with nearly twice as many men. Still, the soldiers of Seaguard kept their calm and one of the escorts mounted on a roan quarterhorse urged his horse a few steps forward.

"Identify yourselves and your destination, in the name of Queen Cersei."

"Queen Cersei?" Sansa whispered. Sandor shot her a warning look.

"We are escorting the lady Jeyne of Duskendale to meet her betrothed Sir Mordred Caswell in Bitterbridge. With the lady is her father, Sir Helbert Rykker."

"I am not aware Sir Helbert had a daughter of age," one of the Queen's soldier's replied, glancing around the speaker at Sansa. Sansa tried not to squirm under his gaze and, remembering her training as a lady, nodded politely, shoulders back, hands relaxed on the reins, every inch of her a lady born. "And isn't Duskendale sworn to those Starks?"

"The Starks have been a lost alliance since the defeat of Robb Stark. Duskendale is prepared to join houses with Bitterbridge and swear it's allegiance to King Joffrey."

The Lion raised an eyebrow, glancing over them.

"You come from Duskendale, then? How is it you have not heard?"

"Pardon?"

"King Joffrey is dead. Her highness the Queen Cersei Lannister reins in King's Landing."

Sansa felt her body grow cold as the heat rushed from her body all at once. Joffrey dead? It seemed too good to be true. But Cerci as queen made a far more intimidating figure. As manipulative and cruel as she was intelligent and cunning; a dangerous combination. She swallowed dryly as the soldiers of Seaguard glanced at each other uncertainly.

"I am afraid we never received word before setting out," the guard said, "else we would say we are most distraught by this turn of events."

The soldier smiled, and Sansa could see that it was cold and cruel, and as she watched his hand inch toward his sword, she knew they'd been caught.

"Funny, because the eunuch told me himself that Sir Helbert had sent a rather colorful response by raven following the announcement of Joffrey's death, extending congratulations to the murderer and suggesting a good many inappropriate things the Queen could do with her new crown. So, naturally, Sir Helbert is wanted for treason and dishonorable conduct toward the crown, and this, by extension, includes his daughter," Sansa's heart sank, "and his men."

At once, Sandor's sword ripped from its shield and the Lions roared and unsheathed their weapons and the scene erupted into battle.

Sansa clung to Mule's saddle, head whipping around wildly for an escape and any sign of Sandor's dark mane. She heard a bellow behind her and turned to see a Lannister soldier galloping toward her, sword raised high. Sansa screamed, and seconds later the man's arm flew off, severed by the escort that had spoken for their group. He was young, Sansa noticed as he turned toward her, wiping sweat from his brow, hardly a few years older than her.

"Go," he ordered, reining up beside her. "Blackwater rush is half a league past the road. We'll hold them here. Take your bodyguard and go!"

Sansa hesitated momentarily, but as soon as her heels touched Mule's side, the horse leapt into action, weaving past destriers and mounted soldiers and breaking past the line of soldiers. Sansa caught sight of the Hound sword-to-sword with a Lannister bannerman and screamed his name. He immediately caught sight of her, and slipped past the soldier, wrenching his sword through the man's neck in passing, and galloped after her. Once assured that Sandor was following, Sansa turned back forward and urged Mule on – and the horse could move. He shot past the Kingsroad, leapt over logs and bushes, weaved around a tree and raced for the banks of the river. Sansa prepared to rein him in, but as they approached Blackwater Rush, Mule seemed to pick up speed instead.

"Woah, Mule, slow now!" Sansa yelled, tugging at the reins, but Mule ignored the jostling attempts and only bent his head and shot forward until Sansa could only screech as she found herself flying through the air to land in the river. As soon as she hit the water, Sansa clutched at Mule's mane, closing her eyes and sputtering as the water slipped into her open mouth. Mule quickly surfaced, snorting loudly, and kicked determinedly at the water, charging for the opposite riverbank. Sansa heard another splash behind her and glanced back to see that Stranger had done the same thing, Sandor crouched on his Destrier. Sansa was forced to cling to the saddle as Mule reached the end of the river, found rising traction along the banks, and pulled them out of the water, trotting out a few feet before slowing to a stop and shaking his body so violently that Sansa almost slipped off in alarm. Dripping wet, cold, and shocked to an inch of her life, Sansa clung to the saddle, breathing heavily as her horse snorted and began nibbling at the grass. Stranger trotted beside them moments later, Sandor eying her appraisingly.

"Quite the mount you've got there," he said. "Never seen anything but a well-trained horse pull that kind of stunt."

"Well I definitely wasn't expecting it," Sansa replied, teeth chattering. Sandor frowned and dismounted, helping her down.

"You need to get out of these wet clothes. You'll get sick otherwise."

"There's nothing dry," Sansa refuted. "Our little swim drowned all our clothes. And it's getting dark." Sansa trembled violently as a cool breeze swept over them. Sandor nodded.

"There's still some light. Take off your heavier clothes – we'll lay them out to dry in the last of the sun. You smallclothes should dry on their own. We have to keep going – we're too close to the Kingsroad here."

Sansa nodded and obediently began stripping out of her cloak, fleece jacket, and dress until she was clad only in her white smallclothes, which clung wet and almost translucent to her body. Sansa blushed and instinctively covered her arms around herself. Sandor snorted, and Sansa half expected him to make a quip about her having little to hide, but he simply pulled a fur from the saddlebag and threw it over her shoulders.

"This is waxed bear fur – good at keeping water off. It's still dry and should keep you warm." Sansa tugged the fur closer around herself and nodded.

"Thank you," she said quietly. Sandor lifted her back into the saddle and mounted Stranger and they rode several leagues further south until they reached a small grove of trees to settle under. There, they tethered and unsaddled the horses, set out their wet clothes to dry, and set up a semi-dry camp, layering the waxed furs beneath wet blankets to keep the moisture out. Sandor dared to light a small fire while the sky was still bluish, and they warmed their chilled fingers and bluing toes.

"It's strange to think, so many days ago, that we had just left Kings Landing and were heading north for Winterfell. For home."

Sandor said nothing, only dug in his sack for remains of food that weren't soaked through. He managed to salvage a sack of nuts, dried meat, three oranges, and a chunk of soggy cheese. They shared the food over the fire, quietly munching and thinking.

"I can't believe Joffrey is dead." Sansa said. Sandor glanced up at her from over his last handful of nuts.

"You can't believe it or you don't want to believe it?" he asked. Sansa shot him a glare.

"You know what I mean."

"Honestly, I'm surprised he managed to last this long with the number of enemies he's made," Sandor shrugged. "This is a war of kingdoms and families. Betrayals and backstabbing. The throne is a place for the short-lived glory-seekers."

Sansa smiled. "Wouldn't you like to be king, Sandor?"

"Not for all the wine in Westeros," Sandor snorted. "It's a thankless, loveless life, ruling a country, and the life expectancy's shit at best. That drunken crow Robert lived longer than most, but I'm not sure how lucky that makes him." Sandor swallowed a mouthful of wine from his skin, passing it to Sansa. She took a small sip.

"It doesn't sound much different from your last profession," she said quietly. Sandor looked at her meaningfully, then shook his head, smiling.

"Guess not. But at least I know who my enemy is."

…

The following morning, Sansa awoke surprisingly warm, and blinked her eyes open groggily. Sandor's back was turned to her, but close enough that she could touch him simply by moving. Sansa snuggled up closer, smiling to herself.

"You awake then, little bird?" Sandor growled.

"Still waking up," Sansa said. She felt Sandor's body rumble in quiet laughter. She couldn't help a small whine when he sat up and retreated from the warmth of the covers, leaving her feeling cold again. She threw the furs over herself, only to have them thrown off seconds later.

"Up you get, little lady. We best get moving if we don't want the Lannisters catching us in our smallclothes."

Sansa groaned and reluctantly sat up glancing around. The sun was rising low in the east, and the air was still chilled and heavy with dew.

"Are any of the clothes even dry?" Sansa asked. Sandor strode over to the tree limbs he had hung their wet clothes on and rubbed his fingers over the fabric.

"Your dress is alright. The cloak and jerkin will need longer to dry."

"It's freezing," Sansa complained. Sandor rolled his eyes, throwing his mail and armor on over a pair of spare, mysteriously dry clothes. He rolled up the majority of skins, but kept the large black blanket, folded it in two and draped it over Sansa's shoulders. He pinned it with the brooch from her cloak and draped the waxed bear fur over the cloak, tucking it around her neck and shoulders.

"Warm now?" He asked.

"Very," Sansa giggled, giving her new garb a little twirl. The cloak was still long enough that it touched the ground, but it was warm and dry and shielded her from the gusts of cold northern winds.

"Seven hells, it's never been so cold this far south," Sandor grumbled as he saddled the horses.

"Winter is coming," Sansa murmured. Sandor glanced at her but said nothing. "So where are we going in Dorne, anyhow?"

"Sunspear," Sandor grunted, rolling their belongings and tying it to Stranger's saddle.

"But that's so far away," Sansa complained. "Wouldn't Yronwood be closer?"

"Didn't they teach you anything in that fancy palace? The Yronwoods are about as loyal to the Martells as the Freys are to the Starks." Sansa flinched and Sandor shook his head apologetically. "There's bad history between them. The Yronwoods will be of little help against the Lannisters, and trying to reach the Martells from there could lead to an encounter I would rather avoid. There's a faster way." Sandor picked up a stick and began scratching in a patch of grassless mud. "We ride south until we reach the Roseroad and follow east and south through the Kingswood. Once we reach Storm's End, we can take a ship to Sunspear. I'm sure there will be a trading boat or two we can convince to let us on."

"A ship?" Sansa blanched. "I've never been on a ship."

"You won't like it," Sandor grunted, dropping the stick and nodding toward her horse. "But we don't have a choice. It's the fastest and safest way to Sunspear, so long as we don't meet any hard-hitting storms along the way."

Sansa sighed. "Father meant to set Arya and I on a ship back home before… before they killed him." Sandor went quiet and looked at her. Sansa blinked back tears. "I yelled at him because I didn't want to leave. Arya was plenty happy, and her dancing professor was coming with her, so she didn't care. He must have known what was going to happen. And I… I was so cruel to him. I never said I was sorry… I never… oh he must have thought I hated him!" Sansa closed her eyes, a sudden wave of grief sweeping over her. "I'm sorry, I must seem such a child. This happened so long ago." She suddenly felt a gentle hand stroke her cheek and blinked open her eyes. Sandor wiped the tears from her cheek and ran a hand through her hair.

"Grieving your parents doesn't make you a child, Sansa," Sandor said gruffly, his voice soft and kind. Sansa sniffed and caught his hand before he could pull it away, pressing it close to her face. She managed a small laugh.

"Strange as it may seem, I think you've made me a better person, Sandor. I think all of this, terrible as it is, has made me a better person than I was. Back then, I hated my sister and my father, I loved a monster, and I was scared stiff of you. If you hadn't been so honest with me, opened my eyes, I would never have known what a fool I was."

"You were never a fool," Sandor said. "Only lost."

Sansa smiled. "Until you found me," she said. She reached up, wrapping a hand around his neck and stood on her toes placing a quick kiss on his lips. Sandor stiffened instinctively, but quickly relaxed and allowed Sansa to pull his head down and kiss him again, longer this time. Sandor wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close as she wound her hands in his tangled hair, exchanging quick kisses, becoming deeper and more passionate by the second. Finally, Sandor pulled her gently away, leaving her wide-eyed and panting, chest heaving beneath the furs that suddenly felt too hot.

"We should leave," Sandor grunted, looking everywhere but her face. Sansa frowned but nodded, sweeping off the front of her dress as if it had been dirtied. Sandor helped her mount Mule and mounted his own destrier shortly after, turning them south.

**…**

**.:Author's Note:. **Oh look who's still alive! Yes, I'm actually still working on this story. There's not much more to go, so I want to finish it. The plot from now on is a bit spur-of-the-moment, however, so please bear with any inconsistencies. It's also been so long since I've worked on this that I hardly remember any of the kingdoms/characters/geographic landmarks. So I've had to do a ridiculous amount of research and had two or three maps of Westeros open for the past few days as I worked on this chapter. I'm pretty OCD about consistencies in canon geography. I'm afraid I may have also lost Sansa or Sandor's character voices, it's been so long, so I apologize if they seem OOC at all.

Let me know what you think, and if there is anything inconsistent I need to be worried about.

Thank you for reading,

- Kerrigas


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

…

They traveled for half a fortnight across the plains, crossing Blackwater Rush when the body was full and not split. They mostly kept to the wilderness, though Sandor had allowed them one night in a ramshackle inn that appeared sparse enough not to draw too much attention. And while the food lacked in salt and the beds stained and the sheets stuffed with hay, it was the best Sansa had slept in days. They trekked by horse on the plains and rest only to eat and drink. As they wandered south, it became warmer and warmer, until she had all but shed her cloak.

One day, as they crossed a plain full of long grasses and short trees, Sandor reigned in his horse and dismounted, drawing his sword. Sansa had to peer over his Destrier to see what her companion was doing, and watched, curious, as he cut a young sapling no taller than he from the base with one clean stroke of his sword. He gathered the sapling, slicing away the divergent branches and leaves. They stopped in the afternoon, earlier than most days, while the sun was still round and hot in the sky and cast short shadows over the grass. A small, trickling stream ran beside them, and Sansa filled their skins and allowed the horses a drink before tying them to a nearby tree, its bark dry and cracked.

Sandor had sat himself down by the stream, peeling the rougher outer layer of the sapling with a small knife. Sansa collected the curling peels as fire kindle, and watched quietly as he trimmed and smoothed the sapling into a long, pale stick half her height. To finish, he added two notches at either end of the sapling and tied a long bit of black leather string to the notches, the sapling bending willingly and flexibly.

"A bow," Sansa said as she realized what he was creating. Sandor grunted in confirmation and stood, removing a bundle wrapped in cloth from his saddlebag. Sansa watched with growing curiosity as a half-dozen steel-tipped and white-fletched arrows spilled from the cloth.

"Your Seaguard knight offered me a double-curve and quiver for the road," Sansor explained. "I'm not much of a bowman, but I figured the arrows would come in handy when you said you wanted to learn."

"Where is the bow?" Sansa asked.

"It was too big for you. I gave it to one of our escorts for a skin of wine. Some green boy who thought he could use it, or maybe sell it for something."

Sansa rolled her eyes, but reached out to touch one of the arrows. It was smooth, carved of a dark wood, oak or cherry.

"What do I need a bow for?" Sansa asked.

"You wanted to learn to hunt," Sandor rasped. "Hunting with a bow's easier than with a knife, for most game anyways. Though boars are spear-game. And you can defend yourself better with a bow, if you know how to use it."

"I have a sword though," Sansa said, touching the sheath tucked beneath her cloak.

"A knife, and one you can only use in close combat, when your opponent can likely overpower you and disarm you within the second," Sandor growled. Sansa looked down sheepishly and he handed her the bow.

"You'll learn."

And so she did. They spared several hours at the end of each day, when the sun did not burn as hot, to practice her technique. The first time she tried, Sansa had found herself struggling to pull back the bow string, despite the flexibility of the sapling. Sandor made it look so simple, but the sapling was much stronger than her, and it took three days for her to finally pull it to her ear. Then, they practiced her aim and release. On the second try, the bow string snapped against her left arm and she yelped and dropped it. Sandor snorted as she nursed a quickly-reddening welt along her forearm, ignoring the rueful looks she shot him.

"You should keep your sleeves down," Sandor advised.

"You could have told me that would happen," Sansa retorted.

"A little pain could do you good, little bird," the Hound replied. "You're too delicate."

"I'm not my sister," Sansa replied. "I'm a lady… I was a lady." Sansa tried to mask the sudden feeling of loss and sadness that washed over at the thought, but Sandor decided their lesson was done and fed the fire with dry prairie grass.

It wasn't until several days later that Sansa was able to use the arrows, and those attempts were little more than disastrous at first. She constantly fumbled with the arrows, dropping them before she could string them, or letting the arrows slip from her fingers as she pulled them back on the string. When she finally managed to fire an arrow, it usually went a few paces and dropped, nose first, into the grass. When Sandor established targets, such as a tree trunk, Sansa often missed them by several feet, if not in distance. While Sandor's comments were typically more critical than encouraging, Sansa kept at it, nursing sore fingers in the evening as they huddled under layers of fur and watched the stars move through the sky.

…

When they reached the Kingsroad, Sandor warned her to stay close and keep her head down, though Sansa knew much better than that by now. Sandor himself could do little about his appearance beside shedding his armor and covering his mail with regular clothes. Stranger they could do nothing about, as the horse stood out as a fine warhorse – ill-suited to his ragged-looking owner – but Sandor would no more let him go than cut off his own legs. Instead, they rubbed crushed gravel powder in his mane and tail and rubbed it around his nose until he nearly bit Sansa's fingers off to make him appear older and more a plowhorse or a retired destrier.

They rode hard most of the day, stopping only to relieve themselves in the bushes or eat a quick meal of bread and meat and nuts, and met few travelers and fewer soldiers, though Sandor kept a keen eye out for any lions or outlaws or such. As dusk broke, they either spent the nights in small, ragged inns or slept deep in the forest, where Sansa would practice with the bow while Sandor sharpened his blade and barked out instructions.

However much Sansa managed to improve in archery, her relationship with Sandor seemed almost stagnant, moving neither forward nor back. Most of the times he seemed lost in his own thoughts, and when they weren't occupying an inn room, he generally stayed awake, sitting against a tree, dozing or honing his blade until the rhythmic scrape of whetstone on steel lulled Sansa to sleep. When she did manage to squeeze a kiss or two from him, they were generally chaste or short, ending much quicker than she desired.

Sansa stared sullenly at Sandor's back. His hair was growing longer, trailing down his shoulders in knotted, dark strands. He glanced over his shoulder once or twice, but otherwise left her to herself. Sansa could feel the frustration building in her stomach. Why was he spurning her advances? She had thought that as soon as the Seaguard escorts would leave them, Sandor would be more willing. If anything, he had grown more and more withdrawn, shying away from most contact with a grumbled excuse.

Sansa knew she was beautiful – perhaps not so much with her travel-stained dress and messy hair – but fairer than most still. And Sandor had professed an attraction for her, and she for him. 'So what is irking this man?' Sansa grumbled to herself silently.

One particular night, as they lay together in on a bed on pine needles beneath a thick conifer, Sansa rolled over determinedly and sat up, looming over her companion. The Hound looked up at her inquiringly.

"Something wrong, little bird?" he muttered under his breath. He hadn't moved, but Sansa could see the whites of his eyes shifting as he glanced around, alerted.

"Yes," she said, a slight louder. "Why are you spurning me?"

Sandor blinked and pushed himself upright. "I'm not spurning you," he replied simply.

"Yes you are," Sansa insisted. "You won't touch me, you won't kiss me, you'll hardly look at me!"

"I kiss you," Sandor said, eyebrows furrowed.

"You don't kiss me like you mean it," Sansa pushed. "It's like you're just doing it because I want to."

"But you want to, don't you?"

"I do, but not like this!"

Sandor shook his head. "I don't understand you, stupid girl. What is it you want?"

"I want you," Sansa cried. "But I thought you liked me."

Sandor shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "It ain't that simple, girl."

"Yes it is." Sansa knew she sounded petulant, but she'd had enough of Sandor's running about her advances. She leaned forward to kiss him but he held her back with a rough hand, gripping her shoulder tight.

"You know what it means, going any further? It means you may not have much of a future left for you, stupid girl. And I'm not letting that happen."

"I'm not a stupid girl," Sansa snapped. "And I have no future. My family is dead. Winterfell is gone. I'm nothing and no-one, and all I have is you."

Sandor looked ready to hit her, though Sansa knew he wouldn't.

"Stupid girl," he said again. "You have everything. You have possibilities. You're still a princess and a lady, and you don't think the Martells know that? You don't think Cercei knows it? Seven Hells, girl, why do you think that whore Queen's got a bounty out for your head? We all thought the Targaryens were dead when the Lannisters murdered the lot of them, but there's been word of a stray thread, some Targaryan wench who's built an empire for herself, taming dragons and burning cities in the East. Cercei knows the danger of letting you live. If you marry into a powerful house you could rally the northerners together, rebuild Winterfell. Don't tell me you've got nothing to live for, girl, because you know it ain't true."

Sansa wanted to protest, but hung her head and said nothing.

…

It took them three more days of riding north to reach Duskendale. Sansa stared in awe at the fishing markets interspersed around the town, and it wasn't until they reached the town's center that she noticed the squat stone House Rykker. She sent a quiet prayer to the Warrior to guide the brave knight who had defied Cercei and remained loyal to her brother. The town was packed tight with travelers, refugees, and merchants. Tired, dirty families crowded the streets, glancing briefly at her with hollow, hungry faces, camping on the sides of the cobblestone streets, between hovels, or on the outskirts of the town in small camps. Merchants called out fruitlessly, trying to sell the last of their wares, or convincing those better-off to buy necessities at thrice the price. There were men with horses, men with cattle or carts, or dragging along women and children to the ports. Sea birds and crows perched on rooftops, swooping down every few seconds to snatch up a stray piece of fish or bread.

"There are so many people," Sansa commented.

"They're fleeing," Sandor said.

"Where?"

"Who knows? Probably the east, though the Gods only know what they'll find there, apart from painted men and eunuchs, savages and slavers."

"I would like to go to the East," Sansa murmured thoughtfully. Sandor looked at her sideways.

"And what would you want to do that for?" he growled.

"Well, it sounds so different," Sansa said. "Almost magical."

Sandor snorted. "There's nothing magical about Essos, little bird. It's the same as here."

"Why do you say that?" Sansa frowned.

"They are people, and people don't change," Sandor replied. "After the war is over, Westeros will be tired and broken and ripe for the taking. If there is no strong ruler by the end of this, some eastern pig, or Targaryen wench, will come take a swipe at the throne, or simply try to conquer some more land and riches."

"Still," Sansa pushed. "I would like to see."

"Let us start by reaching Dorne," Sandor rumbled, almost goodnaturedly. "If we manage that far, maybe Essos won't be so daunting."

…

Sandor and Sansa continued on foot, clutching the reins of their horses in one hand. Sansa tried to quell the instinct of skipping daintily over puddles of mud or dung, and tried to skiddle around what she could. The hem of her dress was already brown and dripping, and the stench of mud and horses mingled with the salty smell of sea-air. They wove through thickets of people and horses and carts until reaching the docks, where Sansa could see nothing but ships in of every size and shape stretching along the coast for leagues.

"Your ship?" Sandor asked a man standing beside a large galley barking orders at a group of men hauling up crates and horses into the ship. The man turned around, and eyed them critically.

"Yes, it is. What is it?"

"Where is it headed?"

"Kings Landing, like most of them. Except the cowards who think they can escape this damned war. Off to Pentos or Myr or wherever. Are you two looking for a particular ship?"

"Expecting family," Sandor grunted before turning away and heading back toward the village.

"What's going on?" Sansa asked, confused. "Why aren't we looking for a ship?"

"Think, foolish girl," Sandor growled under his breath. "You think any right ship is going to just come out and declare passage to Dorne, a declared enemy of the crown?"

"Well how are we going to find passage then?" Sansa asked after a short pause, jerking Mule's reins to keep him from nibbling at the hay in another man's cart.

"This isn't my first time in Duskendale," Sandor said, ending the conversation. Sansa quietly followed him past the bustle of the town to a small, ragged looking nameless inn that leaned slightly to the left and creaked when you stepped nearly anywhere. They led their horses to the meager stalls behind the inn, as there was no stableboy to tend to them. Sansa unsaddled mule and and brushed him down as Sandor went to find some fresh hay.

Once the horses had been properly cared for, they entered the inn, which, indoors, was hardly more to look at than outside. It was dimly lit by a few candles perched on shelves or tables, most of which were covered by a thin film of grease or dust, or stood on three legs instead of four. It was sparsely occupied by a young couple and three old men arguing with the barkeep.

"What can I get you, then?" Sansa turned to see a tall woman, sour-faced and dark eyed, with dark, graying hair spilling down her pale blue dress.

"A night's rest for my daughter and I, some wine, and dogflesh if any."

Sansa glanced at Sandor, horrified and confused, but his face remained unexpressive as he studied the woman. Sansa glanced at her, catching the barest glimpse of shock in her eyes until she blinked, nodded, and ushered them through a doorway behind the bar, down a hall, and into a small room. Two small beds sent a rush of relief into Sansa, and she was about to thank the barmaid when the door slammed shut and the woman walked up to Sandor and slapped him squarely across the face.

"Seven years," the woman hissed. "Seven bloody years, Sandor, and you just walk right in like nothing's changed."

"Everything's changed," Sandor rasped. "Even you can see that."

"I see the same arrogant fool as I once knew. Though if anything you look worse off than ever I saw you."

"I need your help."

"You always need something. It's the only reason you ever come here."

"I wouldn't come if I had any other option."

"Gods know that's true," the woman snorted. She then turned her sharp gaze toward Sansa, studying her narrowly.

"So who's she? Not your daughter, obviously. Far too pretty for that."

"Doesn't matter who she is. We need to get to Dorne."

Sansa followed the exchange with growing confusion and frustration. Finally, she interrupted by loudly clearing her throat in a manner she prayed her septa would forgive.

"Sandor, could you at least introduce me?" she asked, as politely as she could. Sandor eyed her irritably, then sighed and waved a hand before him.

"This is Emylia. She used to live in Clegane Keep when I was a child. Her sister was Gregor's first wife."

Sansa glanced at her, and curtsied a small apology. It was well known what had become of Gregor's wives. Emylia nodded curtly, her mouth hardening.

"My name is Jeyne," Sansa offered.

"Is it?" Emylia asked, then shook her head. "No matter. Where in Dorne are you headed?"

"Sunspear would be ideal," Sandor replied. Emylia grimaced.

"I hope you're not getting yourself involved with this game of thrones all the little lords are playing, Sandor."

"I don't have a choice."

"You said the same thing about becoming the Lannister child's bodyguard."

"This is different."

"Is it? Why is that?"

"It just is."

Emylia glanced at Sansa, and sighed, her face somehow smoothing out into something less sour and threatening, and more the aging, tired woman she was.

"I… I'll see what I can do. I can prepare a bath for you both and some food for the lady."

"Thank you," Sandor said, meaning it.

…

**.:Author's Note:.** Hey all! I'm over my writing block, and I spent all day cranking out two chapters, so here's the first! Hopefully the writing fairy is going to stick around a bit longer until I finish this story (which should be soon). I'm simultaneously writing two other Fictionpress stories, so that's been fun.

Anywho, enjoy the chapter, despite it's eventlessness (is that even a word? Nope...). More action to be anticipated in the next.

Thank you to all who review!

- Kerrigas


	14. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

…

After changing into slightly more comfortable clothes, Sansa joined Sandor at a table close to the bar. He sat in his usual position, backed up against a wall, and chatted amiably – or as amiably as was possible for him – with a large, tall man with a head of curled, graying hair and a beard of similar consistency. He smiled pleasantly when Sansa approached.

"Hello there Jeyne," he greeted warmly. "My name is Rodrik. You may have met my wife, Emylia." Sansa nodded politely and slipped into a chair across from Sandor. A steaming bowl of thick potato and beef stew greeted her rumbling stomach beside a cup of spiced cider. Sandor had already finished his, so Sansa dug into her meal without ceremony. The food was warm, flavorful, and delicious, and Sansa was eternally grateful it wasn't dogflesh. She released a small moan of pleasure, cutting herself off as soon as she realized, raising a hand to her mouth. Sandor looked at her in amusement and shook his head. Sansa ducked over her bowl, blushing slightly, and finished the food with as little noise as possible.

"So how long have you and Jeyne been travelling together?" Rodrik asked Sandor conversationally.

"A few months," Sandor replied. Sansa pondered over that, realized it was quite true. She must be nearing her fourteenth name day soon. The thought filled her with surprising wonder, and even a little bit of hope. Perhaps at fourteen, Sandor would think her old enough.

"That's quite a time. I hope it hasn't been too dangerous. Gods know the dangers of the main roads these days."

"We've been avoiding the Kingroad," Sandor replied, sipping at his wine. "Sticking to the wilds."

Rodrik laughed. "I see you haven't lost too much sense. I feared you may have sacrificed caution for a more direct route."

"Not with all those swords out on the roads," Sandor grunted.

"That never stopped you before."

"Even a dog knows to slink off when the odds are so stacked against him."

"True," Rodrik nodded. "You've gotten wiser, it seems. Not as hot-headed as when you were younger, to be sure. Can't say the same about your brother, however, if rumors are true."

"The rumors are usually true, when it comes to him," Sandor growled darkly. "Gregor never changes, and never will until I hack his head off with my sword."

Sansa shivered, nudging at the last of the stew with quickly fading appetite.

"Brothers should never feel such hatred for each other," Rodrik said sadly. "But I suppose there was always something wrong with your brother. What he did to Emylia's sister was… unforgivable." Sansa could see the man's jaw tighten beneath his beard, and his eyes momentarily harden before fading back to a soft green. "Forgive me, Jeyne. Such is not appropriate talk over dinner, and certainly not before a woman. It seems I've ruined your appetite now. Will you at least drink your cider? Good, let me take that for you."

Sansa thanked Rodrik as he took her plate with a smile and scuffled off behind the bar, his politeness making her wonder if he had figured out who she really was.

Sansa finished her cider and, at Sandor's instruction, was led out by Emylia for a bath. The woman led her into a small room, a large basin of water built into the floor. Emylia poured in a cauldron of water that had been boiling over a fire in the back of the room, handling the hot, bulking thing with surprising strength and deftness and the help of a few rags before leaving the room. Sansa slipped out of her clothes and into the water, releasing a long sigh of relief. She scrubbed herself with a scratchy sponge Emylia had left for her and a bar of hard soap. Once clean, Sansa reluctantly stepped out of the bath, wrapped herself in a thick towel. She spotted a mirror nailed to one of the walls and approached it, wiping away the veil of steam from the spotty surface. She let the towel pool around her feet.

The first thing Sansa noticed was how thin she looked. Her ribs pressed against the flesh of her chest, and her arms and legs looked long and gangly. While she'd always preened over her height and long limbs, she only saw an ugly child staring back at her. Her hair was tangled and dark, the roots fading back into their original auburn. Her cheeks had lost their rosy hue, her eyes their usual glitter, looking more the deep gray of her father than the brilliant blue of her mother. Dark circles still clung to her eyes, and she looked far more tired than she felt. Sansa felt tears prick her eyes. Is this what she had been reduced to, a scared, ugly girl running from the whole world, hopelessly infatuated with an unpredictable drunk?

Sansa fell to her knees and bit her hand to keep from crying out as tears poured down her face. She choked back sob after sob, hiding her face in her hands, ruing whatever cruel gods had destined for her such a dark future, be it the Seven Gods of the Sept or the Old Gods. She cried for her father, her mother, her brothers, and her stupid little sister she missed so dearly. She cried for Jon, so far north from here, whom she had spurned for so long; for Bran and little Rickon, dead before they could even grow into men; for Lady, whose comforting presence she suddenly craved. She cried for Winterfell, burned and broken. Then her heart was filled with anger and she cried for the hatred she felt toward Joffrey and his beastly mother; for Ser Illyn Payne, who split her father's head from his shoulders without hesitation; for Littlefinger and Varys and all the knights who'd done nothing as her father was betrayed and murdered before their eyes. Finally, so consumed by anger and sadness, Sansa cried until her cheeks ran dry and all that was left was the echo of dry sobs reverberating through the room.

…

Sansa didn't know how long she sat there, only that by the time Emylia found her, the bath water had run cold and the steam in the room had long since vanished. The woman said nothing as she kneeled beside her, wrapping her in the towel and sitting her on a small stool beside the fire. Sansa hadn't realized she'd been shivering until Emylia fed some kindle and a few logs into the fire and began toweling her hair dry.

"You're the Stark girl, aren't you," she said after a while. Sansa said nothing, only jerked a small nod. Emylia sighed, helping her into her smallclothes before beginning to brush out the knots from her hair.

"Did you know Sandor and I were engaged?" Emylia asked after a long silence. Sansa blinked and shook her head slightly. "I'm not surprised. Sandor doesn't talk of me much. He doesn't talk of anything much, really." Sansa smiled at that.

"My sister and I came as a kind of packaged deal," Emylia continued, tugging at a stray knot. "Lyanna was betrothed to Gregor, and I to Sandor. Neither of us were very excited," she chuckled, "Gregor was known for his temper and Sandor, well… he wasn't exactly the image of a shining knight either. Lyanna was only fifteen when they were married, Gregor already knighted by Prince Rhaegar. Sandor and I weren't to be married until I reached the same age. He was younger than me, which was always a bit strange. But while Gregor always scared me, Sandor never did. His scars horrified me, of course, and his estranged attitude never allowed for much conversation, but he never tried to hurt me or touch me, and he was almost nice in his own, grim kind of way.

"One year later, we received the news that Lyanna was dead. An illness, they said, but the body we received was… malformed." Sansa could hear the tremors in Emylia's voice as she spoke, though her voice was barely above a whisper. "Her face was red and eyes bulging, her neck purple. Her whole body was covered in dark welts. It was no mystery what had happened. The kingdom offered us some gold and a silent threat to keep quiet. My father took the death harder than anyone. Lyanna was his favorite. Within that same year, Sandor had become a squire and quickly found himself involved in the war of the Usurper. My father nullified our engagement immediately, for obvious reasons. Sandor's reputation was equally fierce as his brother's, if not quite so cruel. Since then I heard only rumors about the Hound and the Mountain. I didn't see him again until seven years ago, when he came to ask my father for something, what it was I never discovered. My father died only a few days later."

Sansa said nothing for a long time, thinking that maybe Emylia had more to say, but if she did, she kept it to herself.

"My father's sister was named Lyanna," she finally said as Emylia began braiding her hair. "She was kind and strong, and was betrothed to King Robert before Rhaegar took her away. My father always said Arya reminded him of her, but everyone says she was beautiful as well. She was only sixteen when she died."

"Lyanna must be an unlucky name," Emylia murmured. "Take care to remember that when you bear your own children."

Sansa shifted. "I don't think I shall have any children," she said softly.

"Now why do you say that?" Emylia asked, tying the end of the braid with a leather thong.

"If I had children, surely the queen would hunt them down and kill them. I would rather never have a baby than to see that."

Emylia sighed. "You poor child," she murmured. "How old are you?"

"Almost fourteen, I believe. I've lost track of time since travelling."

"Fourteen. Still too young to worry so. These are dark times, and things will not be easy. But when this war is over, Westeros will rebuild itself, as it always does. You will be safe in the South, even if the Queen wins the crown. It will be easy to rebuild a life. Sandor will help you, I know it. He's very fond of you, you know."

Sansa blushed, ducking her head. "He doesn't say so."

Emylia snorted. "If Sandor ever said what he meant, I would have figured him out a long time ago. You have to trust his actions, if not his words."

"I suppose," Sansa said dubiously.

"Come now," Emylia said, helping Sansa up. "It's best you get off to bed now."

When Sansa entered her room, Sandor was seated on his bed, the rhythmic rasp of whetstone on steel interrupted as he glanced up at her. Sandor immediately set aside his sword and stood up.

"What's wrong?" he growled.

Sansa blinked, and realized what a mess she must look, what with her swollen eyes and teeth-mark ridden hands.

"It's nothing," she assured him. "I only miss my family."

Sandor stood awkwardly, glancing around the room in search of words he couldn't find. Finally, Sansa walked up to him, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her head on his broad chest.

"Can I sleep with you tonight?" she asked. Sandor murmured a yes, and she crawled beneath the covered beside him, blowing out the candle and plunging them into darkness. Sansa should have been afraid, but with Sandor's warm, comforting presence close beside her, she could think of nothing but sleep, and when she closed her eyes she did just that.

…

Sandor and Sansa housed at the inn for a few days, wandering the city as Emylia attempted to find passage for them to Dorne. Finally, on the third evening, when Sansa had become more and more concerned that the Lannisters were going to arrive any second and throw them all out to sea (drowning was such an ugly death, from what she had heard), Emylia came in claiming success.

"I found a cargo ship heading for Sunspear on the morrow, early in the morning," she told them in the safety of their room. He's on guise of travelling to King's Landing, but will be making wide berth around the mainland until hitting the Dornish peninsula. It's a small ship, lightly manned, but there's room below deck and enough provisions for the journey, which should be no longer than a fortnight.

'A fortnight on the water,' Sansa thought sickly. Enough that she didn't trust the sea, its fury capable of ripping ships to pieces and killing more men than a war, the thought of being on a ship for more than a few days sent her stomach into an uncomfortable, nervous flutter.

"We'll take it," Sandor replied immediately, apparently unperturbed by the impending journey. Emylia nodded.

"I've already let him know of your acceptance. He expects you two hours before the break of dawn."

…

Sansa awoke to the sound of a door being slammed open. She scrambled upright, blinking in the darkness to see Emylia standing the doorway, a candle in her left hand and the door keys in her right. Sandor had already left his bed, one hand still on the pommel of his sword. He had been rather insistent that they sleep in their own beds the previous night, and Sansa was relieved that they had.

"What's going on?" she asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Sansa could suddenly hear the flurry of noises from the closed window, the muffled screams of people and horses alike. She swallowed, afraid and awake.

"Lannisters," Emylia said bitterly. "Quick, we have to get you to the docks."

Sansa looked down. "But I'm not even dressed," she said quietly. Sandor threw her the cloak at the foot of her bed.

"You won't freeze," he said gruffly, though Sansa noticed that he hadn't bothered to undress to sleep, and was throwing on his mail and armor, snapping the sword-belt into its place around his waist. Sansa threw the cloak over her shoulders, relieved that her hair was still braided and needed no maintenance. She slipped into her sheepskin boots and grabbed the bundle of belongings from beneath her bed. Emylia guided them through a back door exit that led to the stables. A cold gust swept over Sansa as they stepped out, causing her to shiver and pull the cloak closer, and brought along with it the scent of fire smoke. Sansa turned and gasped as she noticed the horizon was a rippling orange on a black sky, the shadows of thick smoke disappearing into the darkness. The crackling of fire and screams of men and horses filled her ears until Sandor tugged her toward the stables. Mule was pawing nervously at the ground, and Stranger kicked at his pen, snorting and screaming until Sandor placed a controlling hand on his reins and stroked his neck soothingly. The horses were already saddled and ready, and Sansa turned back to Emylia before mounting, the woman's hard eyes twisting with the reflection of flames.

"May the Gods grant you safe passage," she said fiercely. Sansa nodded and mounted, guiding Mule out of the stables. She saw Emylia say something to Sandor, and he hesitantly reached out and grabbed her hand. Emylia smiled, gripping his hand, and left at the alarmed call of her husband. Sandor mounted and spurred Stranger on, Sansa following suit on Mule. They galloped on the outskirts of town, weaving between burning houses, collapsing under the weight of a thousand orange tongues. The villagers escaped in haste, carrying the minimum of their belongings, trying to tug hysterical horses into compliance, men, women and children screaming and wailing alike. If the fire didn't stop them, the ragged mix of soldiers would cut them down one by one like dogs. Sansa spotted the Lannister flag billowing among the fires before it disappeared. She turned away and rode on.

Sansa failed to notice the Lannister soldier running for them until Mule reared, screaming. Shocked and unprepared, Sansa fumbled for the reins, let them slip, and tumbled from the saddle. She gasped, the wind knocked from her lungs and a sharp pain growing in her left shoulder. Sansa twisted onto her back, attempting to regain her lost breath. Suddenly, she noticed the man quickly approaching her, his sword upraised.

"No," Sansa squealed, scrambling upright. She flipped onto her hands and knees, scrambling for the cover of the nearest house, only to have the man shove her onto her back.

"Stay away," Sansa screamed, flailing wildly. The man shouted something inaudible over the crash of wood and fire, and suddenly Sansa felt a blaze of pain on her cheek. She screamed, and suddenly the body over her tumbled to the ground, head rolling into the midst of the fleeing crowd. Whimpering, Sansa looked up to see Sandor dismounting from his saddle and lift her to her feet.

"We're almost there," he yelled over the noise.

"No, no," Sansa cried, the pain of her face and body and the screams around her paralyzing her with fear and despair. "They're always here. I can't escape. She'll kill me, Gods she'll kill me like all of them."

"No one is going to kill you, you hear me?" Sandor screamed, giving her a rough shake. "You listen to me, Sansa! The boat is just up ahead."

Sansa looked up shakily, and suddenly she was reminded of the night he had come to save her at King's Landing. He was covered in blood, his scar wet and angry and frightening, his eyes dancing with flames of a different color. His face was pale, and sweat covered his brow, and Sansa remembered what it must take for him to be here with her, in the fire. She nodded, recovering some strength, and allowed him to throw her on his saddle before mounting up behind her and urging Stranger toward the docks. On their way, Sandor slashed at any Lannisters that dared to approach them, roaring. Sansa glanced back and saw Mule galloping after them, only to jerk to a stop as a Lannister's blade cut through one of his front legs.

"No!" Sansa screamed as Mule tumbled to the ground. Her loyal horse screamed, attempting to push itself upright, only to be set upon by another Lannister's sword. Sansa cried freely, watching the dying horse disappear into the distance as they left the village for the docks.

As they neared the end of the docks, Sandor reigned in his destrier in front of a large brig, and Sansa dimly managed to see a short, stocky man exchange a few words with Sandor before urging him up the ramp. Stranger hesitated only a moment before galloping up the wooden ramp and onto the deck of the vessel.

Sandor pulled her off the horse, still whimpering, and carried her down and down into darkness and a small room, where she was tucked into a hard bed and fell asleep, tears still flowing down her cheeks and only faintly aware of the warm presence at her back, stroking her hair and kissing her softly.

…

**.:Author's Note:. **I'm back! Sort of... It's taking a bit longer right now, since my current class is pretty hard, and I've been distracted by writing other stories/fanfiction. But don't worry, this story is close to finished, so I plan on completing it!

Reviews would be nice~ So close to 100 already, a first for me!

- Kerrigas


	15. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

…

When Sansa awoke, she was dimly aware that her bed was moving. Or more accurately, that the entire room was moving. Sansa sat up, groaning and fighting back a sudden wave of nausea, and stumbled out of bed. Her body ached and cramped, but she forced herself to her feet. Sansa looked around, noticing for the first time that she was rooming in a small cabin, barely spacious enough for a small bed and a wardrobe nailed to the floorboards. A small mirror was nailed into the wall, and she suddenly noticed her reflection. She was still dressed in little more than her smallclothes, which were splattered and crusted with blood, and dark bruises peeked out from beneath her clothes. Her face was pale, her eyes swollen and red. Her hair was mussed and unkempt and flew out of the half-undone braid, and Sansa thought she looked near a wildling. Her right cheek was covered by a thick linen bandage, which Sansa resisted uncovering. With some effort, she peeled off her clothes, rummaging through her bag for clean smallclothes and her dress and jerkin. She threw on her cloak and opened the door, stepping out of the cabin and climbing the stairs to the deck.

Sansa gasped, stumbling as a sudden gust of wind unbalanced her. She was saved by the presence of a nearby crewman, a large man with a thick mustache and thicker arms, who stared at her critically, stabilized her, and walked away. Sansa inched toward the side of the boat, clutching the railing for support as the boat swayed forward and back over rolling waves. Glancing around, Sansa noticed how large the vessel was, not necessarily in width, but in length. It skidded effortlessly over the water, two huge masts supporting the massive square sails of the brig.

When assured of her safety, Sansa allowed herself to look out at the ocean, a huge, endless blue-green mass that rolled and peaked, white foam glittering in the late-morning sunlight. Gulls and terns squawked above the ship, diving into the water and returning with a mouthful of small fish. A cool, salty breeze buffered the sails, pushing them father into the ocean's endless stretch. The sky was a pristine blue and cloudless. Sansa peered at the horizon, barely able to make out a shadow of land.

"Beautiful day to sail, isn't it?" Sansa turned around, startled by the sudden address. A squat man greeted her with a grin. He held himself with the air of a man in command, despite a protruding gut and rather short stature. He was flat-nosed and red-faced and covered in coarse dark hair that matched the receding curls covering his head, but his eyes smiled pleasantly.

"I suppose so," Sansa replied politely. "I have never sailed before."

"I suppose you haven't," the man replied with a chuckle. "Well, we have a strong northron wind and clear skies. There's no more a good sailor could ask for."

"Is that Westeros?" Sansa asked, pointing to the shore.

"Essos, actually," the man replied. "Overnight we managed to pull out of Blackwater bay under cover of darkness. It's best we stay away from Westeros – there are warships prowling the seas everywhere now. I hear the Greyjoys have even amassed a fleet by the Iron Islands. Good thing it's on the other side of Westeros. Who knows what side _they're_ on."

"I see," Sansa murmured. "Essos." She gazed at the ripple of land at the edge of the horizon. A land she'd never really contemplated before, now so close. She'd heard rumors of the wealth of Braavos and listened to many a song praising the courtesans of the harbor town. The Free Cities were rarely discussed by her family, and only song and legend of the eastern continent had passed her ears.

"Don't tell me you're still hell bent on Essos, little bird."

Sansa twirled around, biting back a smile as she caught sight of Sandor striding up to them.

"He was just telling me that the land over there is Essos, not Westeros," she said, pointing. Sandor glanced at the horizon and grunted.

"He being Jon Lockley, Captain of _Mercia_," the man introduced.

"Mercia? Is she your lover?" Sansa asked curiously. She always heard about how captains often named their ships after the woman they loved. The man laughed, stomach flapping.

"Mercia? Gods no. She was a whore I fucked a few days after I'd bought the ship. Asked me to name the ship after her, so I did, drunken fool that I was. Not too bad a name, though, so I kept it."

Sansa blushed crimson red, glancing down at her feet.

"Oh, looks like Jorn is having trouble with the rigging again," Captain Lockley announced. "That fool never learns." He strode off to help a scrawny-looking young man with a handful of rope looking absolutely confused.

"Feeling alright then, I take it?" Sandor grumbled.

"Yes, thank you," Sansa said. She'd been so distracted by her surroundings that she'd almost forgotten the events of the other night. A whorl of memories sent a shudder down her spine, and she hugged herself with one arm, the other remaining firmly clutched around the rail. Sandor must have noticed because he placed a consoling hand on her shoulder. "I shouldn't have fallen off," Sansa mumbled.

"That wasn't your fault," Sandor sighed. "Mule was no warhorse. He couldn't have survived that, no matter what had happened."

"He was a good horse. I liked him," Sansa said sadly.

"Good horses come and go," Sandor said.

"Just like people," Sansa muttered.

"Well, you're lucky I'm not a good person then," Sandor muttered. Sansa smiled, and broke into a laugh when a toss of the vessel sent Sandor sprawling toward the rail with a curse.

…

The weather persisted rather calmly for the duration of the journey, with a fair wind and good sea conditions, if Lockley had anything to say about it. Sansa couldn't help emptying her stomach every few days as the boat tossed and swayed on frothing waves the captain insisted was only a bare minimum of turbulence. Her bruises has healed decently, but upon removing the bandage from her cheek, Sansa had been so horrified that she'd immediately covered it back up. By the third day, Sansa cursed the seaman as a lurch of her stomach spilled the last of her dried rations into the water. She hadn't been raised on a vessel, and her sensitivity to the constant movement set her constantly to sickness. Sandor fared little better, though he had shed his mail and armor at the seaman's recommendation, for fear of being bogged down by the metal should he fall overboard.

As they slipped between Shipbreaker bay and the Flatlands of Essos, the crew began pulling out huge nets, which they tossed overboard and pulled back in to produce dozens of thrashing silver-blue fish that shimmered in the sunlight. Sansa watched with slight sickening as the crew gutted the fish and tossed them into a pile, to be roasted over the prow for dinner.

"A fine mackerel," Captain Lockley announced over a mouthful of well-cooked fish. "Lacking only a spot of lemon and chive. You'll see, my lady," he smiled at her, bits of white flesh dangling from his beard, "you'll have the finest fish plates in Dorne."

This was all well, save that after ten days Sansa could not bear to look at another fish. Once again she found herself longing the variety of meals at Winterfell or King's Landing, and even the rations of dried meat, fruits, and cheese from their travels by horse, which they had finished off a few days ago. Now they were left with little more than the rations of salted fish, fresh fish, bread, water, and potatoes. And wine and ale – much of that. The seamen lived in their mugs of ale like fish in water. Sandor would often join them for a round or two or three, and then stagger back to his room muttering insensibly and stinking of salt and spirit.

While Sansa had been given the first mate's cabin by generous gift, for the purpose of a medium of privacy, Sandor slept beneath with the rest of the crew in small, hard bunks with wooden rails to keep from falling out during turbulent nights. Even Sansa's bed was rather small, and so she spent her nights alone, strangely lonely without the presence of her coarse-tongued guardian. Sandor had made it clear early on that 'Jeyne' was his daughter and anyone who dared touch her would find himself waking up with his genitals cut off and his body opened up from neck to groin. Because of that, Sansa knew she couldn't behave around Sandor as usual, and silently wished he had declared her his wife instead. It wasn't so uncommon for an older man to marry a young, common born girl. By the time they would land she knew it would be well past her name-day and she would be four-and-ten already.

Sansa sighed. In Winterfell, with the coming of her name day, her mother would wake her up, cover her with kisses, and make her beautiful, braiding her hair with ribbons and flowers. It would be a grand occasion, with music and food and dancing, and every boy in the northern province would come to dance with her, and she would even dance with the common ones if they were handsome enough. Her father would shower her with toys and dolls, and her mother with dresses and jewelry shipped from Riverrun or Kings Landing in the latest style. Sandor noticed her forlorn expression, but when he asked, she simply shrugged and shook her head, and he left with a snort and a roll of his eyes.

On the eve of a fortnight, Lockley drew her to the rail and pointed toward a dark speck of land.

"There it is," he said softly. "The Dornish peninsula."

Sansa craned her head, squinting until she could make out the dark outline on the horizon.

"It doesn't look like much," she said, disappointed. "There aren't even any mountains"

"There are some," Lockley corrected, "But Dorne is mostly desert land. It will be very different from the North, I can assure you."

"I see," Sansa murmured. Sandor approached them from behind, gazing over the waves. Sansa noticed he'd made an effort to shave, and his hair was undone and brushed out, and tumbled about around his shoulders with the breeze. Despite the wind, the sun was hot and the air dry, and Sansa had stuck to wearing a light, plainly colored dress she'd purchased in one of the small towns on their way south. Sandor wore only a tunic and pair of cotton trousers, but had slung his sword belt over his shoulder, the heavy sword ever present. Sansa thought he looked rather handsome without the bulk of mail and armor, though a peeling red burn covered his cheeks, which he constantly itched at as it irritated his skin.

"Dorn, eh?" he grunted when he caught a glimpse of the land. "About time we saw some blasted land. I've had enough of fish and potatoes."

"What do you think it'll be like?" Sansa mused.

"Dry," Sandor replied. "But safe I suppose."

"The Martells' lands are safer than any in the north," Lockley stated. "Sunspear is protected by three walls, and beyond that is nothing but desert. The King's army would have to travel leagues of mountains, blistering desert, and the dead plains of the Dornish Marches, and most would perish on the journey. The only risk is if the Tyrells decide to join with the Queen and march south, but considering the tension between the two, it's likely that Dorne is no threat to them now."

"Will we be docking in Sunspear?" Sansa asked.

"No. There is no passage for ships, trade or otherwise, at the capital. It is heavily guarded, and with the rising tension in the north, I would rather not risk getting shot at for steering too close. We'll dock at Planky Town. There, you'll find a caravan to take you to Sunspear, if that's where you're headed."

"We've a horse," Sandor interjected, referring to Stranger. The poor destrier had been tied up below decks for the greater part of the journey, and spent most of his time kicking and screaming, fed off meager rations of stale hay and corn and left to tumble as the ship swayed. Sansa had gone down once to feed him a half-dried apple she'd found mixed in with the rations, but the sharp smell of horseshit and Stranger's highly aggressive behavior had sent her scurrying back up the stairs.

"Just follow the path east off the port town. You should come across a few caravans along the way. I assume trade with Volantis has likely peaked with this war, since trade with Kings Landing won't be going so well."

"We'll need a place to stay," Sandor rumbled. "For a night at least."

"West of the palace within the inner gates there is a small inn run by a friend of mine, Vanya Kriskov. Anyone in the baazars will know him. Tell him Jon Lockley sent you, and he'll find you room. Can't say it'll be palace treatment, but there's a clean bed and hot bath for a copper more, and the meat pies are to die for."

"Thank you for your aid," Sansa said truthfully. "You have been of much help to us." The old seaman smiled, eyes creasing, and left them for the prow.

…

They reached the port by early the following morning, as an orange sun began to rise over the calm waters. After the boat was anchored and the planks lowered, Sandor guided a very eager Stranger on land. Sansa breathed a heavy sigh of relief, inhaling the familiar scents of dry soil and allowing herself to immerse in the bustling sound of the port, which was surprisingly packed with people descending from similar galleys, merchants and traders bargaining and arguing, as if there were no war, no impending battles and death written on the horizon.

"Best we leave soon," Sandor muttered, glancing around suspiciously. "I don't like all these eyes…"

"Yes," Sansa agreed, with slight deflation. Sandor picked her up and placed her gently in the saddle, mounting up behind them.

"Godspeed to both of you," Lockley called from behind them.

"You have our thanks," Sandor said, tossing him a small pouch that clinked when the seaman caught it.

"And you have my silence," the Captain said, placing a finger to his lips and smiling. Sandor nodded, and Sansa gave the old man one last smile before Stranger began eagerly trotting after a number of riders and caravans.

As they left the bustling port behind and began along a simple dirt path, Sansa glanced around. The land was a gradient of yellows and browns, with sparse yellowing bushes along the path here and there. Dry mountains wavered in the horizon, the dark sea opposite to it, and in the far distance before them, she could see a tall city wavering in the heat. Sansa tried to shrug off her cloak, but Sandor forced the hood back over her head.

"Wait until we're out of the city," he ordered.

"But it's so hot," Sansa grumbled, pulling at the simple brooch tying the cloak at her neck. Though she was wearing only her lightest dress and smallclothes, she felt hot and stuffy, and could already feel the sweat building beneath her garments. She'd been equally deprived of a proper shower for over a fortnight – limited to washing with a small basin of cold water, a bar of yellow soap, and a marginally clean washrag during the entirety of the boating trip. She hoped she didn't smell too bad – Sandor was right behind her. He smelled of sweat and mail and faintly of sea-salt, not so different from usual, and Sansa found that she didn't mind, despite the heat. Sandor allowed Stranger some free rein to advance past the caravans at a slow canter, the destrier snorting and kicking every so often. Sansa clung nervously to the mane, but laughed in delight as the horse sped up and his pace smoothened. Dust flew, kicked up by the horse's thick hooves, and several merchants called after them angrily. Sandor snorted, but a half-league later slowed Stranger back to a walk, the destrier panting contentedly through his nostrils. As they approached, the great walls of Sunspear began to rise tall, nearly blotting out the mountains behind. Only the Spear Tower rose above the walls, the legendary cells of Sunspear said to hold highborn prisoners. To the west, a wide, flat expanse of rock and dust and brush spread into the horizon, disappearing into the silhouetted mountains.

The city of Sunspear clung to the huge walls, hundreds of mud-brick shops and windowless hovels expanding westward for leagues. Caravans peeled off into the city, or continued toward the Threefold gate, three huge brass-colored doors carved with intricate designs that barred the three impenetrable walls surrounding Sunspear. It was no wonder the palace had never been overtaken. At each gate, a small garrison of soldiers peered over the incomers, stopping some and demanding name, goods, and reason for travel.

"Beric and Jeyne of Dusknedale, seeking refuge from the war," Sandor rasped at a guard, who glanced nervously at Stranger. "We have no goods, but seek to appeal to the court."

"The court isn't to ajourn until two days from the morrow," the soldier replied. "But you are welcome to find housing, if you have the money."

"We have enough," Sandor replied curtly, and nudged Stranger forward.

When they finally passed through the third gate, the environment appeared to change completely. Tall fountains emptied clear, bubbling water over elegant carvings; tall, broad-leafed plants burst from every corner, and tall palms sagged heavy with dates; dark-skinned people in light, colorful clothes strode this way and that, chatting and bustling through a busy bazaar, where a number of natives and foreigners alike peddled their wares, rich fabrics and exotic wines from Essos. The great castle loomed over the bustling, sand-colored walls rising into two tall towers that disappeared into the glare of the sun.

"We need to find this Vanya," Sandor growled, glancing around. Sansa noticed he had put up the hood of his cloak, shadowing his face from curious eyes. Not that it would help much, Sansa reasoned. Sandor's height and compilation of armor and weaponry already made him stand out like a white crow in a murder. They dismounted and made their way through the dense crowds, heading west for the crowd of flat-roofed mud-and-stone constructs. The streets quickly became narrower, and the sand-strewn paths damp with horse and cattle dung, and stank of urine and feces. A sallow-faced merchant shoved a handful of beaded jewelry in front of Sansa, startling her.

"Pretty jewels for a pretty girl," the man offered behind a poorly-trimmed beard and red-rimmed eyes. The Hound grabbed the man by his tunic, demanding to know the location of Vanya's inn.

"Kriskov's? It's right down there, and two lefts," the merchant uttered, eyes wide and alarmed by Sandor's threatening presence. Sandor shoved him away and pulled Stranger back down the path, pushing Sansa before him.

After some wandering around the narrow streets, trundling past cattle-drawn carts and avoiding puddles of suspicious liquids, Sansa was relieved to see a rough-hewn wooden placard with the name Kriskov's etched and painted in a brilliant green. Sandor handed Sansa the reins, which she took with some wariness, before pounding thrice on the door. A stout, muscular man with balding hair but a still-thick peppered mustache opened the door, raising his eyes at the unusually large patron.

"Jon Lockley sent us here," Sandor rasped. "Said you had room for two."

At mention of the captain's name, the man broke out into a wide smile and gestured for them to enter.

"Of course, of course. Any friend of Jon is welcome here."

"I need somewhere for my horse," Sandor said, glancing back at Stranger. Sansa flinched as the destrier nibbled at his bit.

"Of course, I'll have him settled in the courtyard. Josh!" A young boy with a head of auburn curls and a missing tooth scrambled forward, eyes widening momentarily as his gaze fell upon Sandor. "Put this man's horse away, and make sure it is well taken care of." The boy blinked once and slid past Sandor, his attention diverted to Sansa and Stranger.

"Big horse you got there, miss," Josh said, holding out his hand.

"Yes, but he's carried us far," Sansa said, handing him the reins. Stranger obediently plodded after the young boy down a thin ally between the inn and another building that looked suspiciously like a whorehouse.

"We have one room available. Only one bed, I'm afraid, but it's big and comfortable, and there's a lovely view of the palace."

"We'll take it, Sandor said gruffly, gesturing for Sansa to go in before him. She followed Vanya up two flight of stairs and through several doorways of silky cloth, admiring the colorfully painted sandstone walls, a pleasant difference from the drab inns of the north. They were admitted into a small, square room with a single wide bed, a small wooden wardrobe, and a simple three-legged beside table. Vanya handed Sandor a large key.

"We'll prepare food at any time you like," he said.

"The girl and I need a bath."

"Of course," Vanya said. "The baths are on the first floor and to the far left. They should be empty, now. My wife Cate can help you with anything you need."

Sandor grunted and the innkeeper left with a small bow. Sansa dropped her belongings beside the bed with a sigh of relief, removing her stifling cloak and rubbing at her nape, which had been chaffed red by the scratchy fabric.

"We should take a bath," Sansa announced. "I smell like a fish."

"Go on then," Sandor grunted, dropping his cloak on the ground. He seemed to debate whether or not to remove his armor, and finally settled for doing so. Sansa couldn't imagine how hot he must have been cooking in that armor under the sun.

"You probably smell far worse than a fish," she said. "You need a bath as much as I."

"I'll take one later."

"They'll be full later," Sansa argued. "Do you really want to find yourself under more prying eyes than necessary?"

The Hound glanced at her, frowning, but then barked a laugh. "You're learning, little bird." He threw off his armor, but kept his sword and followed Sansa down the stairs and to the end of the hallway to their left. A thick cloth drapery gave way to a large baths room, a huge stone-carved bath filled with clean, steaming water. Sansa very nearly shivered in anticipation, when she suddenly realized there was only one bath.

"Oh, you must be th' two newcomers then." Sansa glanced behind her as a woman as short and stout as her husband, though with a thick head of brilliant red curls and cheeks the same color, approached them with a wide smile. "Not to worry, everythin's nearly ready. Got your towels here," she shoved two thick cloth towels into Sansa's arms, "and there's soap and a washcloth by the bath. Now go on, don't be shy. I'll make sure you're not to be disturbed, don't you worry." The woman pushed them in before her before pulling the cloth back in front of the doorway. Sansa heard her bustle off back down the hall, and glanced around, avoiding Sandor's gaze.

"I'll take a bath later," Sandor said, turning around.

"No!" Sansa grabbed his arm, more instinctively than anything. Sandor glanced at her, eyebrows raised. "No," Sansa repeated softly. "It's alright. You need a bath."

"You don't look alright," Sandor snorted.

"I'm fine," Sansa retorted fiercely, meeting his gaze. Then she looked away, dropping his arm. "It's not like you'd touch me anyway," she murmured. Sandor frowned, but said nothing. Sansa walked to the far end of the room, where a folded paper mat had been placed upright as a small changing space. Behind it, she began stripping down, relieved to peel off the sweat-sticky dress and smallclothes that clung to her thighs and chest. She glanced down, touching a breast. They'd grown significantly during the journey, now tight in her dress bodices. Her moon blood had come and gone several times during their travels, but she'd rarely mentioned them to Sandor. She wasn't bleeding now, something she was thankful for. Sansa discovered a small mirror across from her, clinging precariously to the wall on a single nail, and she approached, touching her face delicately. Her cheeks and neck were burnt red from the sunlight, her hair greasy and windswept, with reddening roots. Dust and sand was smudged along her face, and her hands and legs were dry, cracked and peeling. She sighed, ran a hand through her hair and grabbed the towel off the floor. Behind her, she heard water ripple and splash as Sandor entered the bath. She wrapped it around her body, hesitated, and let it drop around her ankles. It was about time Sandor realized she was no girl.

Sansa stepped out from behind the paperboard, suddenly entirely self-conscious. Sandor wasn't facing her, busy scrubbing at his arms and shoulders with a rough-looking washcloth and soap. As she approached, he glanced up at her, before quickly shifting his gaze away again. Sansa frowned and eased into the bath across from him, sighing in delight as the warm water rippled over her body, soothing the aches and burns. The water was already murky enough with soap that she could not see below the surface, and she wasn't sure whether to be glad for it.

Sansa was partially startled from her thoughts as Sandor reached out across the bath. She glanced up, her gaze settling on the washcloth and bar of white soap in his hand.

"Best you clean yourself up before the water gets cold," Sandor said. Sansa nodded in thanks and accepted the washcloth and soap, scrubbing herself roughly everywhere she could, determined to remove as much of the dust and dirt off her body as she could. Sandor had begun scrubbing at his hair, which frothed with soap, and dunked his head into the water to rinse it off. As she began massaging the soap into her hair, she noticed that Sandor was looking at her. Cheeks warming, she shyly met his gaze.

"Yes?" she asked. Sandor narrowed his eyes, seeming to hesitate before speaking up.

"Why do you still have that bandage on? It's filthy, and your cheek's probably healed up fine by now."

Sansa squeezed some soap out of her hair, looking away. "It's ugly," she said bitterly. Sandor barked a laugh.

"You think your scars are ugly?" he sneered. Sansa shot him a glare.

"It's not the same," she insisted, then, more softly, "I'm a lady. I'm not supposed to be… disfigured."

"You're hardly disfigured," Sandor snorted. "A cut like that is nothing. Take it off."

"I don't want to."

"It'll get infected, you stupid girl. Take the damned bandage off and clean yourself properly. I'll fix you a new one."

Sansa clenched a fist. "I don't want to."

"You stupid –"

"I don't want you to see me like this."

Sandor paused at that, eyebrows raised. "What? Why am I not supposed to see you like this?"

"Because you won't think I'm beautiful anymore," Sansa replied, looking down. The water had turned a thick, murky grey from the mixture of soap residue and dust. Suddenly the water shifted and a wave of water suddenly splashed her in the face. Sansa yelped, sputtering and rubbing the water from her eyes, the taste of soap and grit bitter in her mouth.

"Sandor, what –"

"Stupid bird." Sansa glanced up to see Sandor standing over her. He leaned over and pulled the bandage off, the resin adhesive stinging her cheek. Sansa flinched and automatically reached up to cover the scar – a thick, welted pink thing that crawled on her face like a maggot – but Sandor's hand closed over hers.

"You look the same to me, you know."

Sansa blinked, the comment slowly registering with her mind.

"Oh," she said softly, looking down. Sandor let go of her hand and turned around to leave the bath, but Sansa couldn't help but stop him.

"Wait," she insisted. "Let me wash your back at least." Sandor glanced at her warningly, and she met his gaze evenly. "Do you _want_ to smell like a fish?"

She thought she saw his mouth twitch into a smile, and he wordlessly settled back into the bath, turning his back toward her. Sansa felt her pulse quicken, chided herself, and approached, washcloth and soap in hand. She pushed Sandor's hair around his shoulders and began scrubbing at his back, letting one hand lean on his shoulder for support. He tensed only for a short while before relaxing under her hands. His back alone was broad and knotted with muscle, with small dips and welts here and there from various scars. She scrubbed around them, the bathwater quickly turning white with froth. The spear wound in his back was still red and raw, but clean. She touched it, gently.

"Does it still hurt?" she asked.

"Not really," Sandor grunted in reply, then, "Sometimes."

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Stop apologizing, little bird," Sandor rumbled.

Sansa sighed and ran a hand over his shoulders. Taken up by a sudden desire, she leaned over and kissed his back. Sandor immediately stiffened and stood.

"That's enough," he said quietly.

"Stop it," Sansa cried, catching his arm. "I don't understand! You just said you thought I was pretty! You wanted me before, I know you did. What is it about now that makes you so uncertain?"

"Stop taking things the wrong way, stupid girl," Sandor growled pulling at her grip. "You don't understand what it means, Sansa."

"I do understand, and I don't care," she replied, tightening her grip, "but you don't understand that. You just think me a child, but I'm not! I've bled, and I'm four-and-ten now! A woman grown. I am ready."

Sandor turned slightly to face her, and she could see the barely disguised irritation on his face.

"I'm not going to discuss this with you," he rasped.

"At least tell me you don't want me," Sansa snapped. "Tell me honestly." Sandor hesitated, and it was all she needed. Sansa threw herself up, snatching his face in her hands and pressing their lips together with all the force she could muster. For a second, Sandor did nothing and she was afraid he would throw her away again, but instead his arms suddenly closed around the small of her back, pulling her forward as he deepened the kiss, diving into her mouth. Sansa gasped, wrapping her arms around his neck and cradling the back of his head with one hand, responding greedily to his deep kisses. She could suddenly feel something hard and hot nudging at her stomach, and when she realized what it was, Sansa felt a sudden flush of heat sweep over her body, her groin suddenly aching in desire and her nipples stiffening against Sandor's broad chest. Sansa pressed herself hard against Sandor, emitting a startled gasp and growl from the Hound.

"Please," she mumbled in between kisses. Sansa hadn't even noticed that they'd moved to the edge of the bath until she stumbled back and fell hard on her butt, breaking off the kiss. Sandor leaned over her, arms now gripping the side of the bath on either side of her. She glanced up at him breathless, and was momentarily startled to see the way he looked at her, with a fierce kind of hunger she'd only seen in him during the battles he fought. His breath was rough and heavy, nostrils flaring like an animal, and his cock was pressed hard against his stomach. Sansa suddenly realized quite how large he was, and a momentary wave of fear passed over her. That, however, seemed enough to break Sandor's stupor, and he suddenly tensed all over, jaw tightening. The Hound quickly pulled away, clambering out of the bath and snatching up the towel off the floor. Sansa was too shocked to stop him, and could only watch as he messily dried himself off, rubbing momentarily at his soaked hair, and haphazardly threw on his clothes and grabbed his sword before disappearing behind the cloth flap without a look back.

Sansa sat in the bath for a moment longer, a startling mix of emotions raging through her body. She finally regained her wits and breath, shivering as she realized the water had long since run cold. Sansa left the bath, quickly drying herself and slipping into her cleanest smallclothes and the red winter dress she knew would get warm quickly, but was the only clean garment that had survived the trip across the sea. She gathered her dirty clothes and left the baths. By the time she returned to their room, Sandor was no longer present. His belongings were still bundled under the bed, but his armor and sword had disappeared along with him. Sansa sighed and dropped her soiled clothes at the foot of the bed.

...

**.:Author's Note:. **Sorry for taking so long with this one! I was fairly busy during my studies in Chile, and I've only recently gotten back into the swing of things at university. I uploaded an extra long chapter in reward for your patience!

- Kerrigas

ps. Anyone else following the new season of GoT, and was I the only one who not-so-silently freaked out when our beloved Hound reappeared?


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